^.llloLlh 
 
 W^lL 
 
PR 5834. W8M5 """'"■•"*' '■'""^ 
 Melchior. 
 
 3 1924 013 572 866 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013572866 
 
MELCHIOR 
 
M ELCH lOR 
 
 ^IG. wi: 
 
 Wr G. WILLS 
 
 AUTHOR OF iCHAKLES I.,' 'OLIVIA,' E'TC, WRITER OF 'CLAUDIAN 
 
 Hontion 
 
 MACMILLAN' AND CO. 
 
 iSSs 
 
 © 
 
Printed by R. & R. Clask, EdMurgh. 
 
DEDICATED 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 AS A POET, THE DEEPEST THINKER 
 
 AND MOST INDIVIDUALISTIC 
 
 OF THE CENTURY. 
 
 September 20th, 1884. 
 
PART I. 
 
 ORT. 
 
 It is a town upon the middle Rhine, 
 
 Of small resort, not fifty leagues from Bonn, 
 
 And I will call it Ort. Let no man question. 
 
 Trade loveth t\ot the place, and idle Fashion 
 
 Doth seldom light and close her jewelled wings 
 
 Within its walls ; deserted is its castle. 
 
 A droning solitude is on the roads, 
 
 And in the town a strangerhood infects me ; 
 
 At every door the women stand and stare. 
 
 And blue-eyed children mock and point at me; 
 
 And yet I love the place for its old story; 
 
 When toil and care grim traceries imprint 
 
 On brow and cheek, and Time with thriftless 
 
 • , score. 
 
2 MELCHIOR. [PARTI. 
 
 Doth haste his grizzled reckoning of my days, 
 
 It lists me well to give my world the slip, 
 
 And dropping from the clouds within the sound 
 
 Of its old faltering chimes, to hide me there ; 
 
 Repeople its dead haunts — the^ Lady's Field, 
 
 The Doctor's lawn, the Geister-seer's home. 
 
 And I have sought for many careful years. 
 
 Sifting the dust of the dead century 
 
 For relics of this story dear to me. 
 
 And fitting bone to bone for those who acted 
 
 Within this history. I hear them, see them. 
 
 And they have found their way into my life 
 
 In modern guise. Some live, but most are dead. 
 
 This town was Catholic and comatose c 
 
 The lazy weed of superstition grew 
 
 Amid religion — cockle with the wheat. 
 
 The Niederburg upon the left bank lay 
 
 As you face north, a straggling German town. 
 
 The high-pitched roofs bristling with spiked 
 
 dormers, 
 And here and there an older fashioned house, 
 
PART I.] MELCHIOR. 3 
 
 Its mossy tiles purple and gfey and green, 
 Its walls cross- timbered, and its latticed windows 
 O'erhanging murkily the .knobbly pavement, 
 And at street corners spired turrets clung 
 Beneath the eaves, perchted upon impish corbels ; 
 And here, in starry nook, a Virgin shrined. 
 Along the wharves the traders showed their 
 signs — 
 Serpents, sea-horses, dragons gripped medallions, 
 On which were charactered the traders' names ; 
 Girders, or weavers, vendors of Delft ware. 
 Within the century the town had won 
 A special fame for curious silver-work ; 
 Glittered the windows of the silversmiths. 
 Moored to -the wharfing l^y the grimy boats 
 That kept against the stream an endless lapping. 
 A rusty crane, fixed in a Roman tower. 
 Hung on dead slope, like a gigantic dial. 
 And its hooked chain seemed waiting for a bale 
 That never, came ; the boats lapped idly under. 
 Behind the wharves the ancient Hof-Strass lay. 
 
4 MELCHIOR. [pa^t i. 
 
 Its bulging stories overhung their base, 
 
 While here and there a peaked and stepped 
 
 gable, 
 Fronting the eye, stained with some fading fresco, 
 Caught, like a shield belegended, the light. 
 Here was the Stadthaus, bi-towered sturdily. 
 And here, of dull red sandstone, the Domkirche 
 Reigned o'er the place with long and sceptred 
 
 shadow, 
 A German-Gothic church, its porch encrusted 
 With uncouth angels, mutilate apostles ; 
 And 'mid its ornate towers swung listless 
 
 chimes, 
 That syllabled forgetfully their tune 
 As if in sleep, — and fitful came again ; 
 Then the deep clock, with toll of weight and 
 
 travel. 
 Toned for a league around against the hills, ' 
 And at each dreamy toll the gobeck yawned. 
 There in the centre of the square Marktplatz, 
 A statue of the Prince's ancestor 
 
PART I.] MELCHIOR. 5 
 
 Was set on ramping horse of cumbrous beam : 
 He had achieved some immemorial deed, 
 Thus magnified, in bronze by one unknown ; 
 While round his base the flower-women grouped 
 'Mid their prim pinks, and asters, and red roses. 
 Still was this town at night, perilous dark, 
 A century ago ; abed betimes. 
 Six lanterns lighted up the market-place. 
 And here and there along the black Hof-Strass, 
 And on the wharves, a yellow lantern blinked. 
 A lonesome hush all night, peaceful the streets, 
 Save for the watchman with his owlet hymn, 
 ' Or sudden panic of a 'prentice brawl. 
 A hundred years ago in Ort prevailed 
 The simple, stagnant, neighbourly, old tiines. 
 A bridge, high-pitched, and roofed at either 
 end 
 Spanned with six arches to the Upper town 
 (And in the Upper town my tale takes life). 
 Its red-brown tiles conventicle for pigeons. 
 Beneath these tilM sheds were quaintly pictured 
 
6 MELCHIOR. [part i. 
 
 The childish hates, the silly chronicles 
 Of a divided town. Black-letter doggrels 
 Preserved the .superannuated sneers. 
 For, once there was a dull and chronic feiid 
 Between the Upper and the Lower town : 
 The Upper, feudal, wealthy, in the sunshine 
 Of courtly patronage, and the estate 
 Of an accomplished Prince, I name him not. 
 His tenants, wealthy barons, burghers, Ritters, 
 Withholding custom from their jealous neigh- 
 bours, 
 Brought up by barge their luxuries from Bonn ; 
 And, in perennial record of the wrong, 
 Upon the bridge tower of the .Niederburg 
 A monstrous head was set, for ever ogling 
 Across at the aristocrats, and lolling 
 Its mocking tongue, as crying " Ha, ha ! fools ! " 
 The convent walls rose from the river bank 
 Beyond the bridge tower of the' Upper town. 
 And, as if fusing in the fleeting water. 
 The red old walls are doubled down again. 
 
PART I.] MELCHIOR. 7 
 
 Breaking and wavering, weaving a red tissue ; 
 Now seems a writhing fragment floating off, 
 And then it joins again the spectral wall. 
 This was the very confine of the town, 
 Save for a desert garden 'neath its shade, 
 Encircled by a fence of weed-grown rubble. 
 Here basked and roosted meek conventual hens, 
 And sipped at the green pool ; after each sip 
 Upturning piously a grateful beak. 
 The pool lay like a map, with duckweed 
 
 mantled, 
 A fountain once, now home of eft and frog. 
 Like sentinels, two lindens kept the gate, 
 And killed the grass around their straggling 
 
 roots. 
 This desert patch is called the Lady's Field. 
 As from cathedral towers the gargoyles fly, 
 Expelled as 'twere by ban from holy ground, 
 So did this garden 'neath the convent walls 
 Seem excommunicate. The flowers were rank. 
 Those silly warders of a buried race, 
 
8 MELCHIOR. [part i. 
 
 Gay babblings of decaying memory, 
 
 Bleak smiles, which gave the mournfulness of 
 
 life 
 Without its greeting to the wilderness ; 
 While like a pallid swarm of cherubs' heads 
 The guelder-rose climbed thick upon the wall. 
 
 From the red mass of Gothic masonry 
 ;^ehind the convent, rough with dainty crockets, 
 Like a white shell, uprose the delicate spire 
 Of Saint Cecilia's Kirche, with gilded vane. 
 Then pleasantly the eye can wander up 
 Through the main street by gay and mellow 
 
 houses ; 
 There's not a window but some brassy cage 
 Enshrines whole noons of melody. Creepers 
 
 hang 
 From plaited wicker, streaming o'er the sills, 
 And either side -the street aire .trickling rills 
 That sing along their channels. Cocks and 
 
 hens, 
 And ducks, and pigeons, like free citizens 
 
PART I.] MELCHIOR. 9 
 
 Delight themselves beside the little streams. 
 And there the lindens all along, as far 
 As eye can follow them, whose ribbed shadows 
 Are laid across the road, or map theinselves 
 Upon the timbered walls 'mid shoals of sun 
 
 spots. 
 This pleasant street was flanked upon the 
 
 right 
 With orchards ; o'er the walls of orange brick 
 Teemed rosy apples, thicketed in leaves. 
 Rich were the boughs with clustered globes of 
 
 bullion. 
 Here modern villas, built on sloping lawns, 
 Shot diamond sunlight from their trellises,. 
 And through the evergreens the river glanced. 
 But on the left the craggy hills divide, 
 A,s if at Nature's importunity. 
 To let her landscape^ pour its level beauty 
 Upon the town, its distant linden fringes. 
 And sleepy groves dissolving into blue, 
 On to the soft blue band of the horizon. 
 
lo MELCHIOR. [PART I. 
 
 And grassy leagues, for which the thoughts 
 
 take wing, 
 And on the slopes the emerald weft and woof 
 Of vineyards, where glad vines held hand in 
 
 hand. 
 But soaring o'er the scene, upon the spur 
 Of yonder hill, the ancient castle smiles, 
 Most venerably white, ringed by its wall ; 
 A belt of green, its embrasures and merlins 
 Drowned in embowered ivy ; desolate 
 Of state or life, a ghost of sovereignty. 
 When morning mists had hid the clinging 
 
 gardens 
 Upon its hill, that castle might ha"^e seemed 
 A palace in the clouds. 
 The Prince and retinue two summer months 
 Came to the castle, bringing festival ; 
 And, like a gaudy flock of foreign birds, 
 Alit in glittering throng, bedazzled all 
 The homely folk, and humbled rural pride. 
 And dandies tapped their snuff-boxes, and stared. 
 
PARTI.] MELCHIOR. " II 
 
 Fondled their canes, and wondered they were 
 
 . there. 
 Sedans swung through the streets ; some ancient 
 
 courtier 
 In his bag wig within might glance at you 
 With wizen apathy, and pass along. 
 
 Some city dame,bepainted, powdered, patched, 
 
 In gloved hand a nosegay of 'fresh flowers 
 That knew no toilette but the early dew, 
 And preached in vain :^she tripped on in her 
 
 silks, 
 And left a text of perfume on the air. 
 
 Now, circle with its walls this ancient town 
 Old battlements, on which the wallflowers sprung 
 Yellow or red, and dainty maidenhair 
 In breach and fissure. This is Ort on Rhine. 
 
PART II. 
 
 THE WEIN-STUBE. 
 
 Within the tavern's guest chamber are we, 
 A large and low ceiled room, its oaken beams' 
 Are dark with age and sombre ornament. 
 This hostelry was favoured by the Prince ; 
 Its host and hostess sleek were insects born 
 To their prosperity, in courtly sunshine ; 
 An old and superannuated steward 
 The host ; his wife, in crisp and gauffer'd frills, 
 Sat by the great green stove, for ever knitting. 
 Took orders, made the scores, primly ignored 
 A joke too racy from a joyous guest. 
 The windows deep and latticed, sanded floor, 
 And there were splendid bannerets of sunshine 
 Vividly sloping on the panelled shutter, 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 13 
 
 Abask upon the floor and on the people, 
 And all athwart the Flemish tapestry, 
 The Prince's gift, carousing boors, some dancing 
 With tipsy leer, and some with upstrained 
 
 throat 
 Draining the flagon, bronzed by streams of sun- 
 shine 
 Like poetry upon some rude romaunt. 
 Lending to threadbare dulness splendid charm. 
 Between the windows, shelves of well scoured 
 
 oak, 
 Whereon were vessels set of gleaming brass. 
 Which took their lustre from the' radiant wall. 
 The solid oaken table, dinted, stained 
 With memories dull of bygone junketings. 
 The dints of olden toasts from flagon rim. 
 Right noble krugs were there with this inscrip- 
 tion; 
 
 " cigat tliat to^icf) igf toell coofeeli, tirinfe tofiat 
 
 10 cUar, 
 g»pf afe toliat tss truj, lolie eier toliat I'ss rate/' 
 
14 MELCHIOR. [part ii. 
 
 'Tis the slack season in the town of Ort, 
 The Court away, old residents foregather. 
 The very wane of August, and the blood 
 Of the hale harvest year glows in the sunshine 
 That strikes upon the guests — its wonted few— 
 Of the Wein-Stube in the Upper town. 
 See what a vivid crescent of red light 
 Hath caught the haggard cheek of Wolfgang 
 
 Hoff; 
 It. burns upon his lace and salloW hand, 
 And shoots a fire adown his Lager beer. 
 A sculptor, Wolfgang Hoff, of curious gift. 
 Imagination savage and bizarre ; 
 He modelled for the silversmiths, devices 
 Even as that squatted boar upon his pistol, 
 A vain and coxcomb toy, but exquisitely wrought. 
 
 His age some forty, brilliant, barren years; 
 His face was of a fierce and fleshless beauty. 
 The steel grey eyes, incredulously keen,. 
 Stared at you broadside 'neath the lowered brow 
 As if to catch the /alsehood on your lip. 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 1 5 
 
 Then, as chameleon tongue darts on the fly, 
 The smiling, twitting taunt shot from his lips. 
 The scoffing nostril, and the strident laugh 
 Like scream of heron, burst all social bonds. 
 His black, rebellious hair, that seemed storm- 
 tossed. 
 From the paje angles of his temples swept ; 
 And he was tall and lithe and wiry lean. 
 He could be kind, but kind ungraciously; 
 In his brief friendships, bored by gratitude. 
 Dissimulation was unknown to him. 
 Honest to outrage, true to cautery. 
 Reckless, defiant, mischievous, untamed^ 
 In funds, a lavish, ostentatious host. 
 He yet could dine on kraut and Lager beer 
 In cold content, and say the devil's grace. 
 A loan endured he with an angry wince;. 
 An obligation gnawed his Spartan vitals. 
 A man of violence, who knew not fear. 
 But lawless, kicked through every obstacle. 
 Proud ? If a musing burgomaster dared 
 
i6 MELCHIOR. [part ii. 
 
 To take the wall of him, or grazed his pride, 
 A petty Sylla, he would burn the town 
 To avenge the insult ; out of all proportion 
 Were his vindictiveness, and hate perennial. 
 If a sweet speech could cure a mortal wound. 
 By him the sufferer would die unsalved ; 
 He smacked a compliment with secret relish. 
 And like an ancient god would snuff up incense 
 Thereafter — hurl a playful thunderbolt. 
 Of sympathy, that instinct which can sound 
 The hearts of others, that most subtle nerve 
 Which aches responsive to another's pain. 
 That vade-mecum of the gentleman. 
 He had no more than the dry cone hath juice. 
 Sometimes a queer. Quixotic, sentiment — 
 A thin veneer, not hypocritical. 
 But as it were to glass himself and pose 
 For his own pleasure and self-flattery — 
 Surprised you ; should you smile, harsh ribaldry 
 Would cover his retreat. 
 A lively fancy like the ^wing of bat 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 17 
 
 Gave to his moods uncanny play and glimmer. 
 In fine, he had a hanker for sly mischief : 
 To"chevy a fat monk with pack of demons, 
 To assemble in one room avowed foes. 
 The smiling centre, he ; or closet straitly 
 A saint and wanton under lock and key, 
 Would yield to him a grim Satanic relish. 
 
 Fronting the light. Doctor Hirschvogel sat, 
 A long-necked flask of Liebfraumilch before him ; 
 His age was seventy-eight by calendar, 
 But when he shook himself, and swelled his chest 
 He numbered sixty years, green after-youth. 
 High-shouldered, active, ruddy, shapely-legged. 
 Vain of his youth, he oftentimes would rise 
 In mid-discourse, and stepping lightly, toward 
 
 you 
 Inflate his chest, and pass his vein-mapped hand 
 To his old-fashioned wig for emphasis, 
 And, his point' made, then to his seat again. 
 
 Upon a tripod stood the Doctor's youth : 
 Three causes ministered to health and heart 
 C 
 
i8 MELCHIOR. [part ii. 
 
 And kept his sap and vital heat renewed, 
 Pluck, charity, and mental harness on. 
 He had thrown down his gauntlet to old age, 
 That rheumy, wrinkled foe. He said downright, 
 " I will not age, I'll bear me stout and young," 
 And step for step he fought, made good the fight ; 
 He battled age with lunge, and pass, and parry, 
 With discipline and rule and gallant port. 
 His mind lived in a genial, broad daylight, 
 His angers, like the lightning, cleared the air. 
 And charity's blue sky returned again. 
 
 There may be mortal seeds within the love. 
 That roots its being on one spot adored ; 
 The love that bleeds to feed with its life blood 
 One well beloved idol of the heart ; 
 Or with devoted and concentred worship — 
 That bigotry of love, that criishes.self — 
 By passionate suction at some poisoned wound 
 Absqrbs its death for one all treasured life. 
 But there's elixir in the love of kind, 
 In that wide< healthy charity for all, 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 19 
 
 That earthly parallel to Love Eternal, 
 Bland antiseptic, in the house of Life. 
 Hirschvogel — he grew younger day by day, 
 This large good-will irradiating round ; 
 And still this champion kept his harness on,- 
 The mind was never vacant, never strained, 
 The shuttle ever flew with busy huin. 
 A skilful chemist, fusing, eliminating, 
 Subliming, testing ; his laboratory 
 Was as a toy which never lost its zest. 
 Mental disease he long had made his study. 
 Tracing the cause remote, the organic change, 
 And in the burrow vast of speculation 
 For ever sending down the ferret,, thought. 
 To drive to light the fugitive solution. 
 That scienc-e would outlive him, -well he weened. 
 He wooed her as if life had just begun. 
 The Biblithek at Bonn still holds his works'. 
 Three treatises on dreams ^nd lunacy. 
 
 Hirschvogel's fault and virtue were in one ; 
 He loved debate, and fairly took and gave. 
 
20 MELCHIOR. [part ii. 
 
 But contradiction, or unmannered sneer 
 He would retaliate, even from princely lips. 
 He loved to hear his voice, even as a babe 
 Might love its mother's croon. Kind Nature 
 
 shields 
 Our weaknesses with some defensive art. 
 Much craft had he to seize upon an audience : 
 He polled for your attention by allusion 
 And brief indulgence towards your special theme 
 To bind you, in the bond of courtesy, 
 And by a compliment to bribe the ear. 
 Yet ofttimes did he wield his knowledge well, 
 Ofttimes his sheaves were worth the winnowing. 
 Now at the door doth stand with doubtful 
 
 smile 
 Hans Stultz the painter, cornered hat in hand. 
 Fat, fresh, and fair, he stood there friendly 
 
 eyed. 
 From light peruke to his broad-buckled shoon 
 The picture of old-fashioned, gentle goodness. 
 Yet he was young, well nourished thirty years. 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 21 
 
 Were he adorned with queue and lace and 
 
 sword 
 He had seemed younger ; modestly attired 
 Like one who followed a commercial calling, 
 No dandiiied pretence to gentlehood ; 
 To the old honest fashion of tie-wig 
 And the low pocket lappels he adhered 
 Like decent upper traders of the town. 
 There was a winsomeness so absolute — ' 
 Half-child, all friend — about that ample face, 
 Withal a dreamer's look in his blue eye, 
 He seemed like one beneath whose steps afield 
 The daisies would have sprouted in pink frills. 
 He was a painter of the Diirer school ; 
 And he had such sweet cunning in his craft 
 As silenced envy. Witching nacre hues 
 And lustre like some golden morn of old, ' 
 Meek-eyed Madonnas, bathed in amber light. 
 And golden glamours of the saintly legends 
 As rich and tender as an autumn leaf 
 Behind that; smiling face hid cark and care, 
 
22 MELCHIOR. [PART II. 
 
 And tremulous mistrust, like truant schoolboy 
 Who hath slipped out from school and dread 
 
 rattan, 
 And finds himself in perilous liberty 
 On the green happy playground with the birds. 
 There stands a wight, who but a month ago 
 Was lord of a sweet, easeful, tuneful life ; 
 The day too brief for overrunning bliss 
 And all the evening pensive of the day 
 Chewing the cud of past delicious toil ; 
 The wa|cing hours of night abuzz with plans 
 For the next morn, like hive bees in the linden. 
 All this enchanted season of his life. 
 As short as is the blossom time of trees. 
 He had lost, sold, and squandered to a woman : 
 Married his model — made a blind, mad bargain. 
 Her simperings, demure vivacity. 
 Her peeping round the studio like a pye. 
 Her trained endurance of a look or pose, 
 Her massy hair, her strange and vivid face, 
 Had woven such a snare for simple Hans — 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 23 
 
 His heart she captured, laughing in her sleeve. 
 Her cunning was so tempered by contempt, 
 Coupled with her contempt low jealousy, 
 Low jealousy, its slow match ever fuming, 
 For many gentle dames both old and young 
 Loved Hans with blameless ,zeal, and mourned , 
 
 for him. 
 •Now hath he stolen forth to draw a breath 
 Of liberty, and meet the world again ; 
 And yet ashamed, and shrinking from their 
 
 smiles. _ 
 
 The wicked eye of Wolfgang lit on him 
 Wi)th waking mischief; a pathetic sign 
 From our poor painter, for the moment saved 
 
 him ; 
 He seats himself, his broad back to the sun. 
 As, leisurely, we do a task of love. 
 He filled his mellow meerschaum, silver-rimmed. 
 Its base was ebon-black, by rich degrees 
 Deep chestnut, melting into sunny fawn 
 And purest cream ; a silver snake on Hd ; 
 
24 MELCHIOR. [part ii. 
 
 Long stem of cherry-wood, the mouth-piece 
 
 amber 
 Ripe, thick, and round, that, lay between the lips 
 Like a translucent plum. 
 As from the Arabian vase the Geni rose, 
 So fancies, on the slender spouts of smoke 
 Climbed up in cloud-flowers, or grey cabala. 
 Now a great krug of beer was placed before 
 
 him, 
 With offhand clank, which shook the bulging 
 
 foam, 
 Hans drank, and gave a grunt of perfect peace. 
 
 Aloof there sat, entered on some affair 
 Of charity, a gentle, cassocked priest ; 
 Upon his knees he held his shovel hat. 
 In his brown hand his missal. Downcast eye 
 And wan ascetic face, when one addressed him 
 Illumined into a benignant smile. 
 Of him but little, memory can record ; 
 The living trait, the individual stamp 
 Were long effacMy no biography 
 
PART II.] MELCHIOR. 25 
 
 Could e'er be writ of him ; the illumed missal 
 Contained his life ; and if he talked with men 
 Of earthly things, 'twas with a holy cunning 
 To tempt them round to one o'ermastering 
 thought. I 
 
 All human passions, pride, and, hate, and envy, 
 Anger, and lust, were washen out, expurged. 
 Lost in his zeal for God. He was most like 
 An ancient tombstone, on whose lichened front 
 All trace of date and name and epitaph 
 Is gone ; or what remains none can decipher ; 
 Save at the top importunately plain, 
 INRI, Christ's motto of the cross. 
 He was the type of an ennobling faith, 
 His character a fervid monotone 
 Of zeal, of pious discipline, and prayer. 
 
 Yet in the pulpit, when the Soul had lit 
 Her beacon in his gaze, persuasion sat 
 On those thin lips, and a prophetic faith 
 Like brow-beam of Firenze's passioned monk 
 Was shed upon his boldly lifted face. 
 
PART III. 
 
 " Melchior is home again, to-day I met him," 
 Quoth Wolfgang, in that quiet tone we know 
 With which men ever prelude evil news. 
 ■" So soon ! 'tis ominous," Hirschvogel said, 
 In that brisk voice with which men scent bad 
 
 tidings. 
 "And did he Say how went his oratorio?" 
 Calm as an Indian chief in all his scalps 
 At council squatted, Wolfgang paused and puffed, 
 To charge his answer with due emphasis, 
 Looked at the Doctor with the slightest shrug, 
 And said " Why, failed." Feigned incredulity 
 Repelled the tidings ; silent Wolfgang puffed. 
 " Failed ! " cried the Doctor, " did he say it 
 
 failed?" 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 27 
 
 With a vast " phew," and pitying click of palate. 
 
 And Hans with downright tenderness exclaimed, 
 
 " I am as sorry, on my life and soul, 
 
 As if I marred a dozen canvases." 
 
 " Nay, that is strange," with hesitating wonder 
 
 Murmured the priest. "Our Prior writes to 
 
 me, — 
 And cunning he, in sacred melody — 
 A trumpet-triumph hath this Musip won." 
 " The cold truth yet," said Wolfgang, " strikes 
 
 its root. 
 It failed." Hirschvogel rapped the table hotly. 
 
 " Sir, merit never fails, whilst it exists 
 
 * 
 
 It still succeeds, for Hans, for thee, for me. 
 As well to say a gorgeous landscape fails 
 Because the vulgar crowd go mocking by, 
 And spit upon the flowers, and tell gross tales. 
 Since our Thuringj-an master's Passion music, 
 There hath been no such individual birth 
 As Saint Cecilia, work of Melchior." 
 But Wolfgang knocked the ashes from his pipe. 
 
28 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 "Melchior is judged and weighed, the world 
 
 condemns-^ 
 That pubhc verdict ever rudely right." 
 
 " If merit mean success," replied Hirschvogel 
 With little stately bow, " why on his shelves 
 From year to year, doth stand friend, Wolfgang's 
 
 work, 
 Unknown, save to the needy few who worship ?" 
 " Then are they worthless proved ; no more 
 
 of them ! 
 Ofttimes my hammer hankers in my hand 
 To make wild work of them," said Wolfgang 
 
 fiercely. 
 Said Hirschvogel, " Success is your criterion ; 
 In estimating merit, you prefer 
 The gross and greasy scales of public judgment 
 To the discerning balance of the few. 
 Who can discriminate, can feel and fathom 
 The hidden beauty." " Let it hide and perish,'' 
 Cried Wolfgang, " the imponderable stuff. 
 Your dram and scruple poise of taste and culture 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 29 
 
 Pass with the day, but th6se same greasy scales 
 Have weighed and stamped all sterling work 
 
 since Homer. 
 Never had aspirant such favouririg winds 
 As Melchior von Stern ; an orchestra 
 And audience best in Deutchland ; a princess 
 To foster him, a patron prince to pay ; 
 His Missa was performed in the Domkirche 
 To herald in his oratorio ; 
 The prince and train cried ' Oyez, great and 
 
 small ! 
 Lo ! the new Meister, era new in music ' ; 
 Never had aspirant such favouring winds. 
 Whilst I must bow and grin, should I encounter 
 The Burgomaster, hint I have a work 
 I would submit to him, Would he but come. 
 He buttons up his pocket and he comes, 
 Purblind, crass ignorance and prejudice , , 
 In either eye, and to evade a purchase, 
 Glares in cold silence, or presumes to cavil. 
 Whilst I refrain from kicking him down stairs." 
 
30 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 " Knowest thou that Friedmann Bach ap- 
 proves this work 
 And styleth it imaginative, pure, 
 Conceived with a conviction absolute?" — 
 " Conceived with a conviction," echoed Wolf- 
 gang. — 
 " So speaks full-blown success to decent failure 
 And from its plethora affords an alms. 
 See you not further, Friedmann Pach was 
 
 flattered 
 By the Bach flavour in the oratorio. 
 ' Conviction ?' said he, — 'tis the lack of life 
 And faith that wrecks the work ; nay, not Thor's 
 
 hammer 
 Could crush one drop of life-blood from the 
 
 theme. 
 Saint Cecil, virgin wife, her memory 
 Enswathed in fable tight as doth the flax-cloth 
 Swaddle the mummy, and embalmed in lies. 
 It is a fossil-birth of charlatanry. 
 I love the man, but I resent his gifts. 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 31 
 
 His mystery -mongerihg, commune with the 
 
 dead, 
 Lev^e of martyred saints, and cherubim. 
 It lifts my gorge to hear your Mystic hint 
 Of visions ; see him glance across his shoulder, 
 And tell you, ' 'tis no matter ; if you heard 
 You would not credit.' 'Tis a vain imposture." 
 Said Hans : " Imposture," — and he weighed the 
 
 word — 
 "When doves have guile, and the meek hare 
 
 hath choler, 
 Or the sleek sable hath a shock of bristles. 
 The nightingale yell as the flaunting peacock, 
 I'll seek in Melchior's nature for imposture. 
 He hath the sensuous, creative fancy : 
 Imagination, whose fecundity. 
 Like those Homeric mythic mares, conceives 
 Of the wild wind. The spirit of a motet, 
 The phantom of cantatas yet unborn 
 Have siich a substance of sincerity. 
 He fashions fancies in a sleep-awake, 
 
32 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 That but impose upon himself alone. 
 Myself, when stirs within some picture-germ, 
 There comes a spark of fever in my blood. 
 And, till I lay the sprite with brush and canvas, 
 I'm haunted by it like an Indian bat 
 That fans, and sucks my blood — so with our 
 
 friend." 
 " Aye! thou art no impostor, Hans ?" grinned 
 
 Wolfgang. 
 " Thou hast a sprite at home that's hard to 
 
 lay — 
 To fix her with thy gesso. Hast thou oil 
 To pour upon the tempest of the tongue ? 
 Her vigorous impasto on thy face 
 Hath colour in it — aye, and body, too." 
 Hans raised another piteous sign for mei-cy. 
 Vexed with this turn of levity, Hirschvogel 
 Upon the question fastened with high zest. 
 " By little signs we trace a river's course, 
 And read its lightsome diary of travel : 
 A brackish savour, or a granite sand. 
 
-^RT III.] MELCHIOR. 33 
 
 A stain of turfy loam, or golden dust, 
 Or fatal sparkle of decay distilled 
 From city graveyard, or the livid cloud 
 Of sewage, that doth kill the fresh-run fish, 
 And hatches life in germs of pestilence. 
 So can we trace and diagnose the course 
 Of certain minds by vestige of their past. 
 What testifies our neighbour's parentage ? 
 His mother was a thrall to her religion ; 
 Reared in a convent — and, with reverence 
 For this good father's, presence, be it said — 
 One who consigned her individual will 
 To her priest's hands, the creature of a creed. 
 And kept all saints' days in the calendar. 
 Doubtless to her tranquillity and comfort." 
 And he bowed towards the priest. 
 " His father plied a most bewitching bow 
 Upon his Straduarius ; courted, flattered. 
 And not forgotten yet in Nuremberg 
 Among the music-craft ; a sweet composer. 
 I see his figure yet stand gravely there, 
 D 
 
34 MELCHIOR. [PART ill. 
 
 The attentive leaning head above the sound- 
 board, 
 Hand long and supple, bent and pliant wrist. 
 The nerves unsheathed, the morbid scrutiny. 
 Of little words, and actions meaningless, 
 Pushing their daily little sap arid mine, — 
 Impressions worth a smile to healthy minds, — 
 On his suspicious, irritable nature 
 Brought all the harass of substantial ills ; 
 And so, without a sin against their vows, 
 Their love was gradually warped asunder. 
 And bread and sup grew bitter ; so they parted. 
 Now mark the early source. He had illusions ; 
 Call it a waking dream forged on the brain, 
 And thence projected on the retina — 
 He thought each night that Satan, in the guise 
 Of strolling fiddler, Sat upon his bed 
 And played demoniac music, shrilling mad, 
 Past flesh to bear, discords of Erebus, 
 A tingling agony that maddened, flayed. 
 It was a case both subtle and uncommon." 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 35 
 
 "Where was thy craft?" said Wolfgang. 
 " Simple treatment : 
 A little masquerade, a cloak, cocks' feather, 
 A villainous old fiddle, would transform 
 The Doctor to a most insidious demQn, 
 And I will warrant, capable of discord. 
 You watch with nice, inquisitorial eye 
 The sufficit of torture, choose the moment 
 To doff the cap, to break the fiddle's neck, 
 Clap him upon the shoulder, bring him round 
 With the restorative of ridicule." 
 
 " Bleeding,— depletion, wrought a cure less 
 brilliant, 
 But there remained on him a settled melancholy ; 
 He said that he had seen his Doppelganger 
 And felt a fixed presentiment of death 
 On his next birthday, at the hour of noon ; 
 Upon which day his friends had taken counsel 
 To muster at his house in festival, 
 And laugh and feast the fatal hour away. 
 While the wan host Sat at his table-head 
 
36 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 The hour of noon was striking, and all rose 
 To drink long life to him. He filled a bumper, 
 But on the final stroke, in splinters fell 
 His glass— the airy toast froze on the lip — 
 And he fell forward, as if greeting Death 
 With awful courtesy. The man was dead, 
 Slain by Imagination's whimsy lance, 
 The fiend, a simple lesion of the brain ; 
 The music, mere arterial gurgitation." 
 
 '" Two lusty roots," said Wolfgang, "hath our 
 friend 
 For his moon sickness, bigotry and madness." 
 
 " Nay, on his way doth lurk no venomed weed 
 But holy lilies in their light of love. 
 Spotless content, communion with the saints 
 Hath Melchior von Stern," murmured the priest. 
 
 " Communion with the saints ?" Hirschvogel 
 smiled. 
 "Where we can find a physical solution, 
 Let us awhile suspend the inarvellous. 
 On Saint Cecilia's day Melchior was born. 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 37 
 
 She was his pious mother's patron saint. 
 There is some story, that at early dawn 
 She heard the slumbrous sound of organ pipes 
 Breathe through the house, and on the pain- 
 crushed pillow 
 A fresh white rose miraculously lay, 
 Doubtless her husband's hand had laid it there. 
 The babe was consecrated to the saint, 
 And when the little span of childish hands 
 Strained at the early lessons on the organ, 
 Imagination took some truant gleam, 
 Some leafy flicker, and some drift of sound. 
 And formed, with fingers forgitive, a phantom 
 To guide his touch, to bend above his hair. 
 And saint his earliest fancies with a light. 
 Instead of kelpies, mermaids, water kings. 
 Food for young fancy, easy of digestion, 
 The child was atrophied on, black letter,, 
 Lives of the saints, Bolandus, and the Fathers. 
 There stole on him anaemia of the mind. 
 Like mummy wheat, legends and miracles, 
 
38 . MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 Sermons to birds and fishes ; stigmata 
 
 Open and bleeding on the hands and feet, 
 
 And holy women amorous of death — 
 
 All the contagion of a touching faith 
 
 Took root and sprouted to a spectral life, 
 
 Even as the mummy wheat of eldfer ages. 
 
 Inherited disease took the impression 
 
 And fixed idea of the patron saint ; 
 
 The brain cell held the germ, which burst at 
 
 last 
 Its chrysalis, into the full blown saint. 
 
 And so it was with the Pucelle of Arc ; 
 A little maiden, in her matin curtsey 
 To pictured Virgin in its curtained frame, 
 Conceived that it looked her in the face, 
 And as she moved, its eyes still followed her. 
 Till her young heart stood still to hear her 
 
 name. 
 The fixed idea, like a graven die. 
 Left its crisp living impress on the nerve. 
 From day to day those eyes still followed her ; 
 
PART 'in.] MELCHIOR. 39 
 
 And still she brooded on it in the fields. 
 The summer sounds, dreamy accomplices 
 Of her illusion, simulated voices ; 
 The tinkling sheep bells, suinptuous High 
 
 Masses 
 In grey cathedrals incensed by primroses ; 
 The cooing of the quests, distant, responses 
 The poplar's shivering tussles with the breeze 
 Thrilled as the summons of the Queen of 
 
 Heaven ; 
 The fretful chorus of the gnats that glisten 
 In evening's yellow air, the far array 
 Of mustering armies ; skyey orisons 
 Of larks, thanksgiving of victorious France ; 
 All things, the gliding shadow of the hawk, 
 The shine or blench of wind upon the corn. 
 All ministered with roving stir or sound. 
 To rouse the maiden to her lofty mission, 
 The voices lodged in her haunted ear. 
 And spangling visions wrought themselves in 
 
 air, 
 
40 MELCHIOR. [part ill. 
 
 Until she rose, and stood before the king." 
 
 " But Melchior," said Hans, arousing him 
 From growing drowsiness, " hath done good 
 
 work. 
 No dreamer's life is his in word or act, 
 For it is manly, gentle, tempered wisely; 
 Not his. Quixotic or crusader vein. 
 No wild or vapouring fanaticism." — 
 
 " Friend Hans, Insanity is but a ravel 
 In the mind's tissue — but a skein awry. 
 All may be pinging sound in costly vase. 
 Save for one threat'ning- flaw which hints of 
 
 ruin. — ; 
 Then came his art to save him, for a season. 
 Under his zealous master Friedmann Bach, 
 And princely patronage, and flattery. 
 And now and then a draught of busy life. 
 But the old taint, like plague stain on a wall. 
 Comes out, and fades, and still comes out again ; 
 And in his lonely life, the dogging steps 
 Of an inherited disease are heard." 
 
PART Iii:] MELCHIOR. 41 
 
 And here the good' Han Stultz falls fast asleep. 
 His periwig skims lightly from his head, 
 And this his full length portrait as he sits : — 
 Puffed was his waistcoat over his young paunch, 
 Degraded outcome of baulked youth and 
 
 strength. 
 The smooth, fat face unseamed by thirty years — 
 Years that were busy reapers at his hair, 
 For all had vanished from his polished pate. 
 Save for a yellow circlet, like a friar's. 
 Or sandy bar around a glassy pool ; 
 His mouth as mild and supple as a woman's, 
 Sweet, full, and red, with slightly parted lips ; 
 His large and gentle eyes were drowsy shut. 
 A dimpled hand, fine moulded, almond nailed, 
 Hung o'er his chair, the fingers slightly curled^ 
 All but the index, which still seemed to beckon 
 The sanded floor below. The other hand 
 Perched on his knee with dimpled dignity. 
 Proud of its cat's-eye ring. 
 One pluriip short leg extended stiff and straight. 
 
42 MELCHiOR. [part hi. 
 
 Black-hosed in silk, and showing scarce a 
 
 wrinkle ; 
 The other foot was stowed beneath the chair 
 In attitude of uncouth luxury. 
 And more than any spot upon this sleeper 
 The sunshine loved that bald and shiny crown, 
 And focussed in a splendid silky star. 
 The Doctor's eye fell on the tempting globe. 
 Which almost seemed to say " Lecture on me," 
 And turning back the ruifles from his sleeves. 
 Softly approached behind the sleeper's chair : 
 " This glossy vault," said he, and lightly laid 
 Upon it ten extended finger-tips. 
 His chin upon his breast, his forehead wrinkling 
 As looked he up behind his spectacles,— 
 "This glossy' vault is lined with memories 
 Which waken at a touch, as in the clavichord 
 The hammers leap up 'mongst the shining 
 
 strings 
 When o'er the ivory notes an infant's fists 
 Beat aimlessly — the judgment is asleep. 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 43 
 
 But passion, fear, and grief, and idiot joy 
 Are active. Underlaid spreads the arachnoid 
 Lined by the pia mater, and beneath 
 On the grey matter of the brain, the nerves. 
 O'er which run lightly cadences of thought ; 
 And here the random dreams go wandering 
 
 over. 
 Nothing so monstrous and impossible 
 In situation, mood, hey-presto-change. 
 But honest Hans this moment will receive 
 With bland unquestioning credulity. 
 He soars with unplumed wings, he skims th~e 
 
 fields, 
 Plump though he be, on toe of coryphee. 
 
 But gentlemen, here too are fixed ideas 
 Impressed by whilom shock of joy or pain. 
 Dreaming he sits with emulative heart 
 And eaglet hope, a student worshipping, 
 And striving with young pencil to repeat 
 The lustre-secret of the famed Saint Jerome 
 By his, the master hand of Nurembei;g ; 
 
44 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 Now Albert Diirer, in the dusty sunshine 
 Glides in behind, a moment stands to watch. 
 And says in spectral tone, 'Mein Sohn, sehr 
 
 gut' 
 Now if this gracious vision of the brain 
 Imprinted were upon the retina 
 When Hans awakes, there have we Melchior's 
 
 case. 
 The martyrs, blessed virgins, raptured saints, 
 The morbid lesions, microscopic wounds 
 Upon an atom nerve, still reproduced 
 Upon the changeful substance of the brain, 
 Which wastes and is renewed from day to day, 
 Till in a seven years' space the whole be new. 
 Here is a scar upon the cerebellum 
 Sustained by honest Hans, fallen on the ice 
 Eight years ago ; behold a mimic scar. 
 A physical analogy to memory." 
 Then Hans woke up. " How kind is Melchiorl' 
 He said in lusty voice, as in denial 
 That he had winked an eyelid. 
 
PART III.] MELCHIOR. 45 
 
 The Doctor, with a little corner smile, 
 Went briskly to his seat. "Melchior is kind? 
 -His kindness ! should I take one little act. 
 And cast it as it came in my alembeck. 
 Precipitate, sublime it to its essence, 
 Not one infinitesimal deposit 
 Of selfishness, would that pure crystal show. 
 Far absent all the vermin littleness 
 Of pnvy, cynicism," — -here he shot 
 A shaftlike glance at Wolfgang, — " vanity. 
 Endurance of a woman, passive strength. 
 And faith, alack-a-day ! of such a maw 
 , Could swallow and digest a score of creeds^ 
 From Moses to Mahommed, such is he. 
 His orbed heart — girt like an atmosphere 
 With sympathy, a flood of unclaimed love, — 
 Takes ofttimes sad eclipse, disease doth cast 
 Her haggard shadow o'er its native light." 
 Said Hans " These are illusions innocent." 
 
 " We call them harmless, his illusions now, 
 Alas ! sirs, can we know their when or whither ; 
 
46 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 Their presence may imply the wild beast's lair, 
 Thespoor, and the crushed jungle, and the bones, 
 The noisome scent, the dangerous solitude ; 
 Some dawn may a gaunt shadow strike the grass. 
 The gleaming eyes, the carnage on the jaw. 
 Yea, ye may smile !" The Doctor sprang erect. 
 " So do I love the man, Melchior von Stern, 
 That I should feel the very pride of joy 
 To set within that brave and healthful breast 
 Mens Sana : purge the fatal drowsy venom 
 From an imagination baneful strong ; 
 To besom from the chambers of his mind 
 Those cobwebs, apparitions, corner rubbish 
 Of monkish days, the martyred patron saints. 
 And let the wholesome air of daylight in ; 
 Aye, give his youth a brave and bright view- 
 holloa 
 Of coming life, years I can never see. 
 If on these wrinkles Galen's barren wreath 
 Were twined for this last triumph of my craft, 
 Believe me, sirs, I should be happier 
 
PART HI.] MELCHIOR. 47 
 
 Than the old Wit of Ferney at his sunset, 
 When, trembling 'neath the weight of his eight 
 
 decades. 
 He took the crown from all-acclaiming Paris, 
 On the last fitful night of senile glory." 
 
 The priest had listened silently to all ; 
 And now he laid his missal down, and spoke. 
 " My sons, the eye of childhood oft discerns 
 What sage and casuist miss, the sample path. 
 Have ye no faith in heavenly visitations ? — 
 I well believe that Melchior von Stern 
 Hath seen with mortal eye, and heard with ear. 
 What all shall see when loosqned are the bonds 
 Of flesh, and from our eyes hath dropped the 
 
 veil. 
 Is it less possible his patron saint — 
 Entreated long in watches of the night. 
 And long desired and wrestled with in prayer 
 Throughout the stediFast courses of the sun — 
 Might to his chastened eyes reveal her bright- 
 ness ? 
 
48 MELCHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 Blessed Saint Ursula, who at Cologne 
 
 Was taken to her heavenly spouse on March 
 
 The tenth, wrought precious works on earth 
 
 long after. 
 Blessed Saint Rose of Viturbe, who won 
 Her crown of martyrdom on March the third, 
 Lay flexible, untainted by corruption. 
 Till angels bore her body from the view. 
 And she was seen once by her aged parents 
 In sunshine on their threshold. 
 The blessed Saint Cecilia, born above, 
 November twenty-second, did appear 
 To her bereaved father after death, 
 And bade him even unto death be faithful. 
 In later times the saint revealed herself 
 To Pascal, teaching him where lay entombed 
 Her holy relics — lo ! there were they found. 
 My sons, the blessed saints look down on us 
 To guide our erring steps, and dry our tears 
 With viewless hands ; our prayers can draw 
 
 them down, 
 
PART HI.] MELCHIOR. 49 
 
 Even from the glittering files of Paradise, 
 To sojourn in our midst for a brief while. 
 At Kevlaar is our Blessed Lady known 
 By marvels manifest ; the lame and blind 
 Lift to her daily the thanksgiving psalm. 
 As/ music breedeth volume 'neath the hands 
 Of the impassioned master, so doth prayer. 
 Unceasing, grow in powjer : no choiring harp 
 s Rings deafer in the ears of that bright army 
 Of saints and martyrs, than the wail of prayer. 
 Soaring unceasing from the burdened soul." 
 Said Wolfgang, " I would gauge this mounted 
 pistol 
 Against the foam I puff from off my tankard. 
 If Melchior fell but in a woman's toils. 
 If once a subtle wench rubbed shoulders with 
 
 him, 
 And spun around him her fine woman's web. 
 He would forget his tryst with Paradise. 
 Place in one scale the warm and winsome flesh, 
 And in the other this vague mythic saint, 
 
so MELGHIOR. [part hi. 
 
 The nebulous Saint Cecile kicks the beam." 
 He struck the table with the pistol butt, 
 He laughed, his mocking eye fell on the priest, 
 Who for a courteous while forbore to rise. 
 Lest his retreat should savour of resentment. 
 Then, with a kind salute, he gently went. 
 
PART IV. 
 
 THE DOPPELGANGER.i 
 
 Failure ! — 'Twas in the organ tone all day, 
 
 Filling the empty grandeur of the hall : 
 
 . Through all the castle pealed — fitful, forlorn, — 
 
 The music reveries of the Geister-seer. 
 
 Forbidden snatches of the " masterpiece " 
 
 Amid the reckless voluntaries wandered 
 
 That rose despairingly from his slack hands. 
 
 For, he had said, " Oh, leave my memory 
 
 Ye late loved strains. — ^Why will ye follow me ? 
 
 Cecilia, moonbright mother of the tide 
 
 Of holy music in its ebb and flow. 
 
 My patron saint, my muse of melody, 
 
 1 A wraith or double of oneself portending, when it 
 appears, death or disaster. German superstition. 
 
52 MELCHIOR. [part iv. 
 
 Why wert thou far from me ? — I, who had 
 
 thought 
 Thy spirit sang to mine." 
 Failure ! He fancied that the lackey'^ face 
 Reflected, like a distant satellite, 
 The sorrbwful compassion of his master. 
 Failure ! 'Twas in the blackness of the night. — 
 How shone the theatre ; the street without 
 Thundrous with chariot wheels and shouting 
 
 grooms, 
 Upon that night, — 'twas but a week ago, — 
 When all the air was pulsing with his theme 
 And all the clustered faces bent upon him. 
 As he, conducted, with a feverish hand, 
 The stately pilot of his melody. 
 'Twas but a week ago. This night is silent 
 And very fearsome in its solitude. 
 He wended down toward the river-side, 
 To where his boat lay moored : unspeakable 
 The midnight desolation of his path. 
 
 Before him in the dark there dropped a voice 
 
PART IV.] MELCHIOR. S3 
 
 Without a tongue to speak it, " Melchior." 
 Sighs followed him, and twice a wee white face, 
 As of a drowned child, made as 'twould kiss 
 
 him, 
 Then vanished, as an airy freak of sleep ; 
 And the big rain-drops struck upon his cheek 
 Like icy notes of some dumb melody. 
 Now the Domkirche boomed the midnight 
 
 hour, 
 Twelve long and dolorous tolls that lagged 
 
 along. 
 It was twelve years ago since he, a youth, 
 Had won a music triumph by his Missa ; 
 His Missa, which proclaimed him first a master. 
 Since then, what had he done ? Played to a 
 
 public 
 Who were as children in the niarket-placei 
 Until he loathed them, and had fled away. 
 And now the distant watchman wailed the 
 
 hymn 
 To Mary, Queen of Heaven, heard afar, , 
 
54 MELCHIOR. [part iv. 
 
 As beetle's drone — a cry of desolation. 
 
 Some savage prophet of old Babylon 
 
 Might thus pronounce God's judgment on the 
 
 town 
 At awful midnight, coming through its dreams. 
 A thing as dismal as a sexton's spade 
 May throMT up some dear relic to the day, 
 And there was something in that wailirtg 
 
 hymn 
 Brought up remembrance of the triumph year. 
 Twelve years had spread their mosses o'er his 
 
 fame 
 And buried it ; the sexton's spade had tossed 
 The black immortelles upjtheif pathos mouldered. 
 Twelve years ago ! Since then the world had 
 
 changed, ' 
 Men's smiles had lost their truth, their grasp 
 
 grown cool : 
 The trees had not the same joyaunce of green ; 
 A dead leaf of that time would be as sad 
 As the dead tress might be of one beloved. 
 
PART IV.] MELCHIOR. 55 
 
 The nights were blacker now ; the summer days 
 
 Had dwindled glory since the triumph year. 
 
 Smit with a sudden shame at these regrets, 
 
 " I will shake off misgivings and despairs, 
 
 Those barnacles upon the keel of life." 
 
 He passed a hasty hand across his eyes, 
 
 As if to brush away filmy illusions. 
 
 " Now cowardly despondency, flee back ! 
 
 Back to the trembling starting-post of youth ; 
 
 This far success of youth I will forget, 
 
 Dawning success, which told a rosy lie, 
 
 A morning, which hath lingered on the hills. 
 
 My failure will I set upon a headland, 
 
 Where it shall stand, the Ijeacbn of my future ; 
 
 My youth I do consign unto the deep." 
 
 The water murmurs stole upon his ears 
 Where the Rhine swept to sea, black, speeding 
 
 mass : 
 He was aware of one upon the bank. 
 Whose outline almost mingled in the night ; 
 Sure some belated traveller by the stairs, , 
 
S6 MELCHIOR. [part iv. 
 
 Awaiting ferry from the boat below. 
 " The bridge is to thy right," cried Melchior, 
 But it nor stirred nor spoke ; cloaked like him- 
 self, 
 And whether gazing forth across the stream. 
 Or watching his approach, awaiting him 
 He knew not ; 'twas so shadowy and still. 
 So he came peering through the wistful dark — 
 What face is this ? — there came a passing light 
 As from a goblin lamp that flitted by — 
 His own young face ! — 'twas but a span from him. 
 The eyes were glassy bright with the old triumph 
 That shone into the hope-embers of his. 
 The staid, defeated man. His youthful self 
 Fronted him with a bright and selfish stare. 
 A glance of stranger passing in a crowd. 
 To meet us ne'er again, had more of wist, 
 More commune in glazed eyes that died unclosed. 
 No shadow of reproach for squandered years 
 Was there ; cold as your floating eyes that 
 meet you 
 
PART IV.] MELCHIOR. 57 
 
 In black and wavering pool. Bright apathy, 
 , Basilisk apathy, that gazed and savr not. 
 But locked his gaze to its in yearning terror, 
 Speechless regret, misgiving of a nightmare. 
 That little span of night between their faces — 
 A gulf of time — shook as in summer heat. 
 Trembles the faint horizon. In a moment. 
 It vanished, as in wind a taper's flame. 
 It flickered off", a waft, dreamfully wild. ' 
 Then knew he, he had seen his Doppelganger 
 The harbinger of death, — a ghostly warning. 
 To Melchior's heart there shot a mortal chill ; 
 He stretched his hand forth in the empty air, 
 Upon his ear dwelt words, or by degrees 
 Returned — words voiced aloud, or only spoken 
 By soul to soul — foreboding of his death, 
 Seeming to shadow forth the day and hoijr. 
 A fearsome solitude was all around, 
 The Rhine swept on to sea, black, speeding mass. 
 He pushed his boat inte the middle stream. 
 
PART V. 
 
 Night on the Rhine — black, boundless, gulf of 
 
 night. — 
 Down the mid stream the boat slid silent on, 
 Its brooding pilot seated at the helm ; 
 Wafted along, the idle oars beside him. 
 The Niederburg outlined mysteriously : 
 Along its base, blank as the mist on moor ; 
 Sharp mapped above against some dreary 
 
 gleams. 
 Befringed with spire and chimney. Here and 
 
 . there 
 A star-like lamp made solitude more lone. 
 Now past the tavern on the right he glides. 
 As if some river sprite "beneath his keel 
 Drove him with scaly hand to demon home ; 
 
PART v.] MELCHIOR. 59 
 
 The spiky wildfire of the tavern lamp 
 Streamed down to him upon the inky ripples. 
 The heavy drops were coming through the 
 
 dark, 
 And stealing ghostly kisses from his cheek ; 
 Vast clouds above, like shoals of mighty 
 
 mammals 
 Cleaving the middle night in wondrous silence. 
 Now with black span the bridge in arches six 
 Looms into view, the central parapet 
 Shows out against the hooded gleams of night ; 
 Toward this he steered, and soon was lost in 
 
 shadow. 
 Save for a blade-bright ripple in his wake. 
 Sudden, some dark and fluttering thing of life 
 Rose on the parapet, a moment paused 
 Like statue ever there, then with low cry 
 Flung forward ; a loud plash, and all was still. 
 Up started Melchior, creeping to the bow. 
 He peered before him in the pitchy current. 
 Now here, now there, he fancied marbling gleam 
 
6o MELCHIOR. [part v. 
 
 As of some floating thing before the boat, 
 And snatched at it, — the water mocked his 
 
 hand ; — 
 Half dreamt he saw a little shivering swirl, 
 Leant down to it, — the water, dead-cold water. 
 Hush ! a faint rustle brushed the speeding keel, 
 Downward he hung stretching his eager hands 
 And clutched wet linen — through loose floating 
 
 hair 
 His fingers passed — and then he touched a face 
 Beneath the water — then he grasped an arm 
 And drew a dead weight up into the boat. 
 A lithe and senseless form ; it was a woman's. 
 Gently he laid it all along the thwarts, 
 And bent him down to scan the features dim. 
 One hand lay in the bilge, like drownM thing, 
 The other rested numbly on her bosom, 
 Caught in wet linen, as though seeking yet 
 The spot the ache had been, now coldly still. 
 Her head dropped heavily upon her shoulder, 
 With the boat's roll it rolled its listless weight 
 
PART v.] MELCHIOR. 6i 
 
 As if in piteous mimicry of life. 
 The forlorn light touched faintly on the wet 
 Of brow and cheek,, as with his fingers combwise 
 He drew the hair away from either temple. 
 From parted lips that cry still seemed to break — 
 In their soft muteness was such wretcliedness, 
 And in the half closed eyes the glistening drench 
 Was like a stream of sobless tears in death. 
 Swift he unclasped his cloak, and folding it 
 He laid it pillow-wise beneath the head. 
 Then with face -forward strokes he rowed to 
 
 shore. 
 And there, beyond him, was the convent porch. 
 And o'er the postern with a sallow light 
 Swung the dim lantern, flaring in the rain. 
 Tender he raised his burden, dead or living 
 He knew not ; on his shoulder dropped the 
 
 head 
 And round her in kind swathe, his arms enfold 
 The slender waist and limbs, whos^ youthful 
 mould 
 
62 MELCHIOR; [part v. 
 
 The soaking clothes betray beneath their cling. 
 He called. — With faltering step old Martha 
 
 came, 
 Lay sister, and the portress of the gate. 
 Into the hall he bore her, and the lamp 
 Shone on a white young face ; sad violet 
 Was under brow and eye, and glistening wet 
 Between the mute grey lips, like suffering smile : 
 A pearly crescent gleamed the parted teeth. 
 Fair, fair to sadness was that countenance. 
 Piteous to weeping was its beauty wan. 
 Oh woo back life to it, ye sisters kind. 
 Chafe those poor limbs, and lend a fostering 
 
 warmth. 
 The vital breath wake in that swooning bosom. 
 Those eyes rekindle from their drowse of death. 
 What tale of woe hangs on those spellbound lips? 
 Unloose the spell, freezing that unknown voice. 
 And let us hear its music, let it tell 
 Its, tale of woe, that we may weep for her. 
 For Christ his sake, wake gentle life again. 
 
PART VI. 
 
 The sun is up, and bounteously he rises, 
 Just passing from the ruddy to the gold ; 
 Ladder of gladsome light, athwart the Rhine 
 Spread from the orb, a high road for Aurora ; 
 In trembling expectation of her step 
 A little jubilee was every ripple. 
 How glow the tiles above the roofM bridge 
 Like coral lacquer sprayed with purple seaweed ! 
 With airy wheel descends a pigeon white. 
 The offspring of a sunbeam and a lily, 
 Never was such a dazzling, thing beheld 
 As this white bird that flutters in the blue. 
 And lights in glory on the topmost tile. 
 
 Oh, fresh, unutterably fresh and green. 
 Rejoice the limes, in files of humming perfume, 
 
64 MELCHIOR. [part vi. 
 
 And rucjdy light illumes the convent wall — 
 Like wassail candles in the dormer windows — 
 Sainting the sculpture rude of old apostles. 
 Green, and as gladsome, shot the grass and 
 
 rush, 
 Red, and as radiant, flamed the hollyhock 
 In buttoned livery and silken crests ; 
 And the flushed roses on the convent wall 
 Seemed as a swarm of infant cherub heads 
 Grouped by the monk of old Fiesole. 
 
 A duckweed pool below the desert garden 
 Lay rich as gold-green arras, shot with diamonds, 
 And purple branching pattern scattered o'er. 
 At this side of the bridge there stands a tower 
 That seems to burn ; beneath the fountain 
 
 flashes. 
 A little saint of bronze springs from the centre. 
 And at its feet a wheel-shaped canopy 
 Of curious ironwork. Around a group 
 Of early gossips with their pitchers stood, 
 Face and white cap flashed rosy in the sunshine, 
 
PART VI.] MELCHIOR. 6s 
 
 And o'er the pavement streamed their shadows 
 
 blue. 
 Boat after boat from distant bank put off^ 
 Like little golden argosies, the brass 
 Of milk-pails bristling with a crown of beams ; 
 And sturdy peasant women, ruddy-limbed. 
 Swung patient at their oars, that leap in fire. 
 The melancholy Thol-haus on the hill 
 Borrowed a cheer from this most blessed morn. 
 
 Oh heavy night, how art thou conquered ! 
 There's not a lingering memory of thee, 
 There's not a blade of grass or woodbine bugle 
 But joins in silent triumph over thee. 
 Hast thou one bitter vestige, dark and cold 
 Within yon shadowy portal, of thy reign ? 
 Shineth this light on the prim lips of death 
 And the damp grooves around its sunken eye ? 
 The birds are living, with their fitful song, 
 All full of hope, and glad survivors all ; 
 The insect lives, in steely panoply. 
 Outliving last night's rain ; doth. she not live? 
 
66 MELCHIOR. [part vi. 
 
 Clad in a sister's homely gown she lay, 
 All motionless ; her eyes watch anjfiously, 
 But she is mute ; what will her voice be like ? 
 Strangely that holy dress beseemeth her, 
 Her face so young and quaintly beautiful. 
 Meek, even as a Boticelli's angel. 
 Of ivory pallor, as the crucifix 
 Which bent above her from the blank grey wall. 
 The thorn-crowned head looked sadly down on 
 
 her, 
 As on His swooning mother He looked down. 
 A missal by her side showed some good sister 
 Had prayed beside her, or had kindly chidden 
 With holy text the rash unhappy sin. 
 The morning sunshine entering, virgin white. 
 Streamed on the til^d floor with blithe good- 
 morrow. 
 She saw him enter ; straight her startled eyes 
 Fixed on him full a grey and anxious glance. 
 In the ],ow voice we take when we address 
 The sick or dying, some few words he said. 
 
PART VI.] MELCHIOR. 67 
 
 Low as he would have spoken to a spirit 
 But just released and not yet taken flight. 
 She did not answer, and she seemed to fear. 
 With a keen wistfulness her grey eyes followed 
 Each stir and look ; and when he rose to go 
 Still clove her gaze to him. Upon the threshold 
 He stopped and turned, deeming that she might 
 
 speak. 
 Parted her lips, and yet no murmur came. 
 He bade them kirtle her in taffeta 
 Of softest green, and neatly coif her hair 
 In plaited cap, and gird the veined wrists 
 With creamy cuffs of Netherlandish lace, 
 Rich-cut as ashen leaf of Maretima, 
 And clasp her kerchief with a gold agraffe. 
 All that might win a woman's wincing spirit 
 Back to the pride of life, he bade them offer ; 
 But put no question, never speak of him. 
 Lest gratitude might swell the sickened heart 
 With any touch of pain. So kind was he. 
 
PART VII. 
 THE WEIN-STUBE. 
 
 Precious in these old times a topic new 
 In town remote, stagnating its stale news, 
 Till men take shame to stir the mouldy mass ; 
 Then comes like leaven in the heavy dough 
 Of daily sameness, a fresh living question. 
 All brace their harness, burnish up their arms. 
 He, the pugnacious, who had spent his prowess, 
 On small domestic questions of the hour 
 Too limp to grapple, buckles on his harness, 
 Keen for debate, excursive and dogmatic ; 
 And he, the doubter, mocking every theory, 
 Accepting nothing, smiles and shakes his head 
 With a cold aggravation, knowing nought. 
 One,* the secutor following with menace 
 
PART VII.] MELCHIOR. 69 
 
 The retiarius with his taunting toils ; 
 And he, the listener, as spectator comes, 
 Blank with surprise, suspending his opinion, 
 And now to one side, now the other, leans. 
 
 A woman, beautiful, unknown, and homeless. 
 Drops like a falling star in Melchior's life. 
 Drops with, her secret, with her grief, her history, 
 Like curving trail of sparks that died in falling ; 
 For none have heard, and guesses rise like 
 
 bubbles 
 Which burst when biggest — this the living 
 
 question. 
 And in the Wein-Stube were met again 
 The selfsame gossips, flailing the fresh news. 
 And tossing it, and winnowing with zeal. 
 
 It was an autumn night, after the sundown, 
 And from the flue erect 'twixt stove and ceil, 
 Four brazen serpents all uncoiled, supported 
 Upon their crests the yellow cheerful lamps. 
 The Doctor sat cross-legged, his flask, before him ; 
 His veinous hand sailed forth at every period, 
 
70 MELCHIOR. [PART vii. 
 
 Or swooped with finger point upon the table. 
 Wolfgang, with storm-tossed hair, and doubting 
 
 smiles. 
 Sneering the pathos off from point to point. 
 As if he puffed a ball of thistledown, 
 Leaving the bare, rank stalk, without a star 
 Of gentle down ; and as Hirschvogel raised 
 Genial conjecture, set his heel on it. 
 Hans Stultz was there ; in lambent mildness lay 
 The lamp light on his face ; round as his cheek 
 Came comfortable clouds of smpke, ascending 
 From the great pipe bowl, and his eyes were 
 
 round 
 With a new interest. Happy truant he 
 Among his friends, forgetting for the hour, 
 In tavern home, that other loveless home. 
 Who is she ? What is she ? Whence came 
 
 the woman ? 
 None saw her in the twilight ; one averred 
 That on his door at midnight came wild beating , 
 As of a woman's palms, upon the wood ; 
 
PART VII.] MELCHIOR. 71 
 
 Another said he heard a Avoman's sobs 
 Amid the sullen pattering of rain, 
 That they grew far, as if the weeper fled ; 
 The watchman thought he heard the sound of 
 
 feet 
 Upon the slushy pavement of the briflge 
 By the roof echoed, but no cry or plash. 
 And now a week had passed without response 
 To these cold questions. Who is she? What is 
 
 she ? 
 Whence came the woman? — beautiful, unknown. 
 Even as they tell, in malign beauty came 
 A witch upon a country-side and wrought. 
 
 Quoth my sleek host who entered suddenly. 
 Familiar through the herald's privilege, 
 Who beareth news that lends him consequence. 
 " Lo ! meine Herren, Father Mark without. 
 He wendeth to the convent solemnly, 
 I'll warrant he could tell, an' he may list. 
 More of this maid than any man in Ort." 
 " Entreat him in, let some one follow him," 
 
72 MELCHIOR. [part vii. 
 
 Hirschvogel cried, " this flotsam of our river, 
 This mystery which vexeth all our minds 
 Hath brought a wondrous simple to mine hand ; 
 Nay, as it were, infused in my alembic 
 An element, rare, potent, and benignant 
 As e'er physician worked a cure withal ; 
 New life, new hope, new blood for Melchior. 
 Not all the cunning herbs which Venus rules, 
 As vervain, yarrow, purple-buttoned true love, 
 Clary named" Christ's eye, and moon gathered 
 
 sperage. 
 Could aid or vie with this new influence ; 
 Not to be culled in Araby or Java, — 
 No alchemy could tempt this wondrous simple 
 From mineral, — yet it is in our midst, 
 For Melchior's sick mind a balsam sweet ; 
 Beauty ! a woman's beauty ! Joist one glimpse 
 I had of her, I carried with me home 
 As an elixir sup ; a wrinkle, sirs, 
 Smiled itself flat, or I have lost the tally 
 Writ by old Time ; there's naught so beautiful 
 
PART VII.] MELCHIOR. 73 
 
 Hath e'er alit in Ort. This Beauty drug 
 Will I exhibit on our' visionary ; 
 Touch each illusion with the chymic force 
 And 'mid this ruby he9.t 'twill drop in crystals ; 
 Mark me, he hath his cure even in his hands." 
 " Now," with a grin, said Wolfgang, " what a 
 
 jest. 
 What a delicious irony of chance, 
 If, for that virgin wife, chaste Saint Cecilia, 
 A wandering Magdalen should fill the shrine, 
 Saint Ma.gdalen expel Saint Cecily." 
 " Friend Wolfgang Hoff, I know no other man," 
 Said Hirschvogel with an assuaging smile, 
 " Who can compel from those who hotly differ 
 The black mail of unwilling admiration ; ' 
 But you will pardon me, my years give leave, — 
 I would entreat, if Father Mark should join 
 Our company, a chastening of thy jests. 
 To wound a gentle soul, methinks were pity." 
 Incapable of counter-compliment. 
 Yet savouring the Doctor's tribute sweet 
 
74 MELCHIOR. [part vii. 
 
 Laid deftly on his -palate, Wolfgang bowed 
 As silently assenting to a truce ; , 
 His tongue knew nothing of the buttoned foil, 
 The rapier was his weapon, and he sheathed it. 
 But when the gentle priest stood at the door, 
 Refusing to be seated, bland and humble, 
 The flinty mischief in his reckless eyes 
 Struck its accustomed spark of mockery. 
 
 After the kindly " Benedicite," 
 "My sons," said Father Mark, "scant is my news 
 About this friendless, young, unhappy lady ; 
 Something, perhaps, I know, but may not speak ; 
 What I may tell is yours and willingly. 
 What she is, who she is, and whence she comes 
 God and she know ; she listens and speaks 
 
 rarely. 
 She hath the grace and speech of gentle rearing, 
 Most docile, with a reverent attention 
 To words of exhortation or reproof 
 I deem her as a brand plucked from the burning, 
 A sacred vessel amongst wassailers, 
 
PART VII.] MELCHIOR. 75 
 
 Restored to the altar. Even already 
 The sisters love her ; but a settled sadness 
 Usurps all other moods ; the Providence 
 So manifest, God's finger palpable 
 
 In her escape " 
 
 "As palpable," smiles Wolfgang, 
 " Had she been drowned ; one devil's toy the 
 
 less." 
 The priest replied with calm, assured tone, 
 " My son, in that same moment Herr von Stern 
 Pushed forth his boat, even at the dead of night. 
 Her fate was poised, and every gliding boat- 
 length 
 Was measured by an angel. at the bow. 
 Till, at the mortal second when she stood 
 Comfortless, wild, and sought her desperate 
 
 death, 
 God's messenger was there. His Providence." 
 " What would'st thou say, good Father ?" argued 
 
 Wolfgang, 
 " If this same providence which points thy moral 
 
76 MELCHIOR. [part VII. 
 
 Amounted by and by, when fully ripe, 
 
 To the purveyance of a gay leman 
 
 For the ethereal Melchior von Stern." 
 
 The priest was mute ; then spake the painter 
 
 Hans, 
 His soft heart troubled by the brutal sneer, 
 " This morning I was painting at the chapel, 
 And many things the portress Martha told me 
 About the stranger, as she ranged the chairs. 
 She says her name is Blanca, nothing more, 
 But letters L. and S, are on her kerchief." 
 Said Wolfgang, " Doubtless she hath changed 
 
 her name 
 So many times that she forgets the natal." 
 " When asked," said Father Mark, " where she 
 
 was tutored 
 To play the spinet, work the tamtour lace. 
 She named a convent built upon a hill, 
 That o'er the river overlooketh Bonn. 
 And I can trace, methinks, the pious training. 
 The gentle mould of a fconventual life." 
 
PART VII.] MELCHIOR. 77 
 
 Said Wolfgang to himself, " I'll prove her truth." 
 " Strangest of all, seeing her sex and youth," 
 Said Hans, resolving to relate a trait 
 Which Wolfgang could not gainsay or contort, 
 " She seems devoid of woman's special weakness, 
 That blemish of the noblest, vanity ; 
 For Melchior bade them clothe her daintily. 
 No pleasure hath she in rich Flemish lace, 
 Or silk ; the gplden brooch she doth forget 
 To clasp upon her kerchief To the mirr;or 
 Her pensive eyelids never upward flit, 
 Nor doth she trim a fold or smooth a tress. 
 To coming step without indifferent ; 
 But in a misty glory shines her hair. 
 Nor can a tribute to her wondrous beauty 
 Call up the phantom of a woman's smile." 
 " The sisters do not deal in compliment. 
 That tribute," said the Doctor, arch-aSide, 
 " Was paid by Genius unto Beauty, Hans." 
 Then came his little stately boTy to Hans. 
 "No vanity?" sneered. Wolfgang, "ever thus 
 
78 MELCHIOR. [part vii. 
 
 With those lost, homeless, fabling Magdalens, 
 Whose vanity is killed by their bleak trade 
 Of want — of scorn — cold struggles after pelf. 
 A woman without vanity, be sure, 
 Is as a woman whom the surgeon's knife 
 Hath widowed of her breasts — once they were 
 there." 
 " Within the little satchel at her side," 
 Said Hans, " A letter, blurred illegibly. 
 Was found, and strange ! directed to the Prince. 
 None questioned her about it, she was mute." 
 Said Wolfgang, " Ever 'tis the habitude 
 With the adventuress, to carry letter 
 Addressed to some great name — the forgers die, 
 To stamp the falsehood with a shoiyy guise." 
 The Doctor's chivalry was all ablaze 
 To do a tourney in a forlorn cause, 
 A woman absetit, friendless, chaijipionless ; 
 Her every word and act perversely read. 
 And all her misery labelled with a sneer ! 
 The tilting fire shot from his age-bright eye. 
 
PART VII.] MELCHIOR. 79 
 
 " Now, shame on thee," — he started from his seat, 
 And stepping with brisk anger to the stove, 
 Face to the foe — "Now! Shame upon thee, man, 
 Beshrew my tongue — that name of man is forfeit 
 To him who slanders an unhappy woman. 
 Thou hast known evil only — mental vision 
 Is all asquint and crooks the fair and straight ; 
 And thy diploma as philosopher 
 In sooth was taken from the devil's hands. 
 Thy measure of all others hath been scaled 
 From thine own nature — motived from thyself 
 And every human problem calculate 
 By thy Satanic ciphering. For shame." 
 Here Wolfgang, not ungratified, smiled 
 grimly, 
 Pleased with the parallel to the arch-fiend. 
 " Now /," Hirschvogel said, " sate by her couch. 
 And with a doctor's license, questioned her, 
 And you'll allow me also to know somewhat 
 Of woman, and discern the sterling ring. 
 I judged her without prejudice, yet closely, 
 
8o MELCHIOR. [part vii. 
 
 And I would gage my many-wintered judgment 
 That young in years she yet is young in heart. 
 I saw the quick blush, that untainted witness, 
 That heart-glimpse and that lightning bond of 
 
 truth 
 Come flitting up, and say, ' you must believe me, 
 I am unused to shame.' " 
 
 " Something she dropped, but it was lost in 
 
 sobs," 
 With hesitation, said the gentle priest, 
 "That once her mother knew our Prince; the rest 
 Died on her lips." 
 
 " The rest was Providence," 
 Laughed Wolfgang, " and the tale's beginning, 
 
 doubtless. 
 More of the erring flesh than Providence. 
 If Providence had kept the girl at home 
 It might have spared itself a miracle." 
 
 Quick to forestall the Doctor's wrath, the 
 
 Priest, — 
 " An act of Providence hath its own history^ 
 
PARTVII.] MELCHIOR. 8i 
 
 The ways of Deity have a mighty sequence ; 
 
 Beholding of them but a little section, 
 
 Presumptuous man cries — Lo, the line is 
 
 straight ! 
 
 But 'tis a segment of a mighty curve. 
 
 God's ways have orbits vast beyond our ken. 
 
 The glorified look back from Paradise 
 
 O'er their life-track, and see the shining line 
 
 He marked for each — the long and linked clue 
 
 Of mercy — punishment — of love and pity ' 
 
 Which drew them imperceptibly to him. 
 
 Timely comes death at his appointed hour, 
 
 Timely the terror and the pestilence. 
 
 And timely comes the mercy from his hand." 
 
 Upon the table Wolfgang laid his pipe. 
 
 And towards the priest he bowed with courtesy. 
 
 " Touching this mooted point of Providence, 
 
 Wilt hear a tale, and it befell myself?" 
 
 (" No mockery?" Hirschvogel asked still testy.) 
 
 " Hear it or not, — 'tis sad, bizarre, and strange 
 
 Beyond all tales, beyond all classic myths, 
 G 
 
82 MELCHIOR. ' [part vii. 
 
 Beyond all dreams of Seer or of Sybil ; 
 Grand as the mailed birth in Jove's own brain, 
 Sad as the broken urn in an Etruscan tomb." 
 
 The Priest he laid his clasped Missal by, 
 Hans fastened his soft gaze on Wolfgang's face ; 
 Hirschvogel lit another pipe and hemm'd. 
 Crossed and uncrossed his shapely leg in fidget. 
 And curbing his impatience as he might, 
 That some vain tale should gag his eloquence. 
 Then Wolfgang, in a tone, of sentiment 
 He sometimes feigned or felt, his tale began. 
 
PART VIII. 
 
 THE MICROCOSM. 
 
 " When I was young, fain was I to be saved, 
 I kept a conscience, and was duly scourged 
 And tortured in her vault inquisitorial. 
 I raved of Providence, the sparroiv's fall. 
 If my dog died, I saw a visitation. 
 Although he died full of unsavoury years. 
 The torrid time which killed my neighbour's 
 
 crop. 
 For it I lifted thanks, for I loved sunshine, 
 Marvelling to hear that he had prayed for rain. 
 I made myself most pestilent to all, 
 So prosy — tetchy — argumentative. 
 Like our long-winded friend, Hirschvogel, here. 
 That, one May morning, in my father's coach" — 
 
84 MELCHIOR. [part viii. 
 
 (" Thy father never even owned a waggon ") 
 "That, in my father's coach, one morn in May, 
 Forth was I sent for change of ways and scene. 
 Pleased with the summer glow, I rolled along. 
 Courted by the coy wind which whispered by. 
 To self-complaisant mood, limply content. 
 They drove me to a mansion on the hill, 
 Its grounds were hoar with limes and cherry 
 
 bloom. 
 The woods behind in green trance stretched 
 
 away. 
 A courtly gentleman received me smiling. 
 He was my host, and welcomed me with gaze 
 Intent, and somewhat overmastering. 
 I nothing questioned, taking all that, came. 
 My fellow guests were strange — some muttered 
 
 hoarsely, 
 An old priest gabbled blasphemy and foulness, 
 A high-born lady lolled her tongue at me. 
 And an old dame, wizened and drooped with 
 
 age. 
 
PART VIII.] MELCHICiR. 8s 
 
 Trundled a hoop with rickety delight ; 
 Saving myself, all things seemed upside down." 
 
 " Thou dost not mean the madhouse on the 
 hill, 
 But thou wert never mad," mused Hans per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " Oft'times at night I heard a muffled howl 
 As if an owlet flitted on the gloom. 
 There was a colonnade 'neath which we walked, 
 And on twelve pillars its entablature. 
 A range of seats along from end to end 
 Smoothened by wear, discoloured by long soil. 
 The stain of oft-reclining head or back. 
 Was on the wall,- like dim and blotted annals. 
 There weis one guest who fascinated me. 
 And yet revolted daily more and more. 
 He sat with jealous crouch upon his bench. 
 His sunken head between his massy shoulders. 
 The hair shorn close above that wrinkled slip. 
 Hinting of forehead — his red furtive eyes 
 Blinked with a vacuous cunning — all uncharged 
 
86 ' MELCHIOR. [part viii. 
 
 With any human motive — human interest," 
 Save sluggish spite. Upon his bristly chin 
 The drivel from his lips trickled arid dropped, 
 And his huge claw -like hands grasped either 
 
 jowl. 
 Still as I strolled the pavement, morn or noon. 
 Beneath the coping of the portice, 
 When driving rain gave colour to the stone, 
 Or when the dust lay white — that creature sate 
 As ape in cage, and watched me covertly ; 
 Followed me up and down the leaden eye. 
 Till I forsook the place, to shun his watch. 
 One morn I woke when all the east was tender 
 With early red. An impulse seeitied to say, 
 ' Something' afield awaits thee — go and see.' 
 Noiseless I rose — a silent hour of toil, 
 And nimble zeal unbarred the doors to me, 
 And o'er the dew I sped on to the woods. 
 Led by some impulse in my speeding, feet. 
 And now, the sky above was satin-white. 
 And then, green twilight of enlacing branches 
 
PART viii.] MELCHIOR. 87 
 
 Let only twinkles through — I saw a pool 
 Beneath an ancient elm whose shadow seemed 
 A dark forgotten fragment of the night — 
 Left by her in her flight — ^yet, as I peered 
 Methought I saw a something o'er the pool 
 Poised in the air — then mine accustomed eye 
 Saw that it stirred — a round and spinning thing." 
 
 " This is a dream or parable," said Hans. 
 But Wolfgang noticed not, and fabled on. , 
 " It darkly spun upon a shadowy slant. 
 And, with soft nod, it swayed, as it revolved 
 Most floatingly, and all without a sound. 
 It is a world ! I said, — Let there be light ! 
 Through the dense foliage up I swung myself; 
 I tore away the boughs, and leaf, and twig 
 With fiery industry, till sunny chasm 
 Displayed the sky — Again I stood on earth, 
 A sunbeam struck the orb — a glorious beam ! 
 Like a half-moon it spun — a tiny world : 
 I nearly dropped with joy as I beheld it, 
 I felt a Godhead growing in my heart. 
 
88 MELCHIOR. [part viii. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis well done, I cried, good — grandly good ! 
 Methought I saw a blue and rolling sea 
 And tiny waves that twinkled fairy-green. 
 Minute as the white larvae of the ant, 
 Did seem the snowy mapping of the mountains. 
 Woods small as lichen, exquisitely-frosted, 
 Lakes tiny as the wing of dragon-fly. 
 Prismatic icebergs small as needle-points. 
 With doting scrutiny I gazed and gazed, 
 On every heart-pant rose dazed wonderment, 
 Childish delight and love — a Godhead's love. 
 I fenced that pool with wattle and with branch, 
 With coward jealousy effaced my tracks, 
 With the manoeuvring love of irised plover, 
 Above her rushy nest, I cleared from briars 
 Another path which led another way. 
 Then home, and with a hand that shook like 
 
 aspen 
 I drew each bolt, and then I stole abed ; 
 But ever did I muse upon my world. 
 Hour after hour I thought of it — love-sick, 
 
PART VIII.] MELCHIOR. 89 
 
 And every morning rose me with the sun. 
 I passed, re-passed that way, and came again ; 
 I caught the trick of murmuring to myself 
 To ease my heart beneath its sweet, pent secret ; 
 Methought each morning was a century 
 Of the new world. * 
 
 Each morning ere I gave mine eyes this rapture, 
 And nigh the place, I shook with a suspense 
 That palsied me. What ! if it should be gone. 
 But, when I saw it, came a shock of joy. 
 One dawn I woke with words upon my lip. 
 There is life ! life ! the world is teeming warm. 
 With step and heart too bounding for the earth 
 I sped across the dew. The infant world 
 Is pregnant! The young nations ope their eyes ! 
 I came — the light had touched the hemisphere ; 
 I saw but a pale crescent — tense, I watched 
 As stole the light around, and in the shadow 
 Sometimes, a mountain-top glowed like a ruby. 
 Methought my sight grew microscopical, 
 Of piercing power, even as the vulture's eye. 
 
90 MELCHIOR. [part viii. 
 
 That circling heavens on heavens above, can 
 
 see 
 The skipping field-mouse azure miles below ; 
 Minutely keen as is the midge's vision 
 That sees the sun-mote like a silver cliff. 
 I saw a river, fine as the blue vein 
 Upon a woman's hand, rimmed with steamy 
 
 slime ; < 
 
 I thought I saw a nascent bubble rise ; 
 Then living things writhed up — the reptile 
 
 brood — 
 And lay about. 
 
 With an expectancy which stopped my heart, 
 I felt the miracle of all was coming. 
 Upon the rich fresh loam among the oak nuts 
 I saw, yet stained with his natal clay, 
 A man — a living man — ^like swaddled baby, 
 Waiting to catch the sun and nursing wind ! 
 Around him, thick as valley of dry bones, 
 A tiny nation lay and stirred with life. 
 It was enough — I dared not linger there 
 
PART VIII.] MELCHIOR. 91 
 
 Lest joy should kill me lik;e a lightning bolt ; 
 Life ! life ! I owned a precious living world. 
 Morn after morn, I kept delicious tryst, 
 Methought each morning was a century ; 
 And tongues arose, and peoples built their streets, 
 Each atom being, with its 'speck of shadow. 
 Moving with it, adown the colonnades ; 
 Nobles and kings like animalculae. 
 And armies as minute as time-glass sand, 
 Of streaming glimmer — so they seemed to 
 
 march. 
 And I would crane above them lovingly 
 That they might know my face — ^their Providence: 
 Which sheltered them from ill and from de- 
 struction. 
 I saw a tiny temple was begun 
 With little nest of scaffolding about, 
 A marble temple, raised on marble steps 
 Pillared and domed — I was their God — to me 
 Arose their prayers — my soul dissolved in 
 love! 
 
92 MELCHIOR. [PART viii. 
 
 With cautious circuit I approached the place, 
 For once, methought, the crackling of a bough 
 Betrayed a thing of life upon my track. 
 One morn — oh ! morn of triumph and of pride ! 
 My temple would be domed — rpillared and 
 
 perfect, 
 And catch the sun. Like startled deer I ran 
 Till in the shadow of the wood — then paused 
 Before I gave my longing heart its feast, 
 To let the joy of thought precede sight's joy 
 And make my spirit for its ecstasy. 
 Then on mine ear there burst a hideous yell 
 Of laughter or of anger, hoarsely loud 
 As from some giant ape. With answering shriek 
 Of terror I flew forward — desperate. 
 There stood the idiot, dashing with his fists 
 My darling world to fragments — with dull splash 
 They fell in that dark stagnant pool and sunk. 
 And there I stood, heart-broken Providence." 
 *' What was the idiot ? " asked Hirschvogel 
 
 musing : — 
 
PART VIII.] MELCHIOR. 93 
 
 " Blind Chance as pitted against Providence.'^ 
 And Wolfgang laughed and rose — " Blind 
 Chance was victor." 
 
 A melancholy fell on old Hirschvogel, 
 
 And Hans looked dreamily forth on the dark. 
 
 The gentle priest had risen, and was gone. 
 
PART IX. 
 
 A DAINTY lemon light was up the sky 
 And threw its elfish glamour on all things, 
 An eve come back from childhood — e'en the 
 
 clouds 
 Looked like sea-shells and infant wonderments. 
 Fat Hans came up the street along the Rhine, 
 Came up beneath the sign of silversmith 
 And shops of ware and delf all sunny gay. 
 Then came he clumsy-gaited to the bridge 
 Where oped the street unto the witching west 
 And there he stood awhile, caught by the charm. 
 And all his boyhood thronged back on him. 
 In that wild, yellow and delightful light. 
 The colour of the scene his fancy touched, 
 And native instincts of his darling art 
 
PART IX.] MELCHIOR., 95 
 
 Woke colour's lustrous sense which dwelt in him. 
 Colour — thiat Wizard colour^-supi;eme gift ! 
 Mute music to the eye — a creed unarticled ; 
 Small sweet apostles are the flowers and leaves 
 To teach its laws and fine affinities, 
 Its passion and its sunny sorcery. 
 A ministering bliss consigned to us 
 From olden centuries with fadeless flame, 
 And I would die^ uplifted, my last gaze, 
 Upon a canvas of Carpaccio, 
 Of Gozzoli, or Cima, Tintoret, 
 Bellini — Durer — doting on their light. 
 Came back to Hans a happy evening, ' 
 When, youthful student, he first won approval 
 From his cold master — thrifty of his praise. 
 Who still would pass the easel of the boy 
 With silent shrug or brief disparagement. 
 But on this evening of the yellow light 
 He paused — stood still — sat down — and viewed 
 
 his drawing 
 For full five minutes, and then said "Sekr gut." 
 
96 MELCHIOR. " [part ix. 
 
 A prince since then hath often cried " Sehr 
 
 sckdn": 
 But no ! the subtle savour was not there 
 As in that grim " Sekr gut." Hans' gentle eye 
 Filled brimming full — oh ! for the boyish day 
 Ere he had sold his freedom — yoked himself 
 With a low partner — ^jealous — vulgar — loud, 
 Whose comeliness had made his senses thrall, 
 But, when the sensuous scales dropped from his 
 
 eyes. 
 He saw her as she was — a termagant : 
 And he had mated one who thrummed a discord 
 Upon his finest sense — his keenest nerve. 
 Two fissures in poor Hans' wedded bliss 
 Opened within the first few silly days 
 Of honeymoon : a little perfumed treasure 
 Of love letters, as innocent as bonbons, 
 A little, old, deserted nest of love 
 Where once a lovebird brooded, downy-bosomed, 
 Was found by Clara, and a little spark. 
 Mild as a glow-worm, lit a mighty blaze 
 
PART IX.] MELCHIOR. 97 
 
 Which scarcely when dazed Hans had smothered 
 
 down 
 
 Broke fiercely out again and yet again. 
 
 In his mid sleep, mid meal, and middle work, 
 
 The smallest gust blew up the smouldering flame. 
 
 The other quarrel went by sap and mine, 
 
 Endless insinuation, sneer, reproach, 
 
 Threat, aye, and insult, to those dearest ones 
 
 On earth, his mother and his sisters three. 
 
 , Now half his earnings, paid most piously, 
 
 Went every year to keep their hearthside blithe. 
 
 It was his chiefest joy ; if you had met him 
 
 Upon the road, and seen a chubby smile 
 
 But dreamy, rest assured he thought of them. 
 
 This mellow tide of love and loyalty 
 
 Met with a brawling snag, a muddy dam 
 
 Thrown up each day by Clara^ — Home grew hell. 
 
 A sudden hand struck Hans upon the shoulder. 
 
 He turned and countered Wolfgang's callous stare, 
 
 " Ah ! my fat friend, hast left thy wife at home ? 
 
 Married thy model and divorced thine art?" 
 H 
 
98 MELCHIOR. [part ix. 
 
 " Now, dost thou mix thy paint with bitterness. 
 No more thy pretty pictures shall enchant us, 
 Thy dainty colour shall go dry and sad. 
 At every anxious touch, a door shall bang. 
 At every earnest thought — a baby squall ; 
 Across thy room a clothes-line and wet smocks. 
 Vile smell of cooking when no appetite, 
 A savage appetite when there's no food. 
 If thou should'st need a model's pretty face 
 Thy wife, who will not sit to thee for love 
 Will meet the girl with elbows akimbo, 
 A fierce Hen Dragon watching on the stairs 
 To fright all women from the premises. 
 The endless babble of a woman's tongue 
 Will muddle all that once was bright in thee. 
 Till -every sunny thought which made thy 
 
 fame 
 Will die like butterflies before the hail, 
 Flattened and crushed upon their rainbow wings. 
 Poor victim of uxorious idiotcy, > 
 
 How art thou fallen ! marry thy model, eh ?" 
 
PART IX.] MELCHIOR. 99 
 
 " How thou dost press the thorn into my 
 
 flesh ! 
 Unless thou canst ejctract it let it be ;" 
 But Wolfgang ruthlessly pressed home the 
 
 thorn. 
 " Ach Gott ! sad marvel takes, me h,ow within 
 The same enribbed scope where the great heart 
 Of genius beats and finest melody, 
 A seraph and an ape have twin abbde ; ' 
 One hand plucks asphodel, the other paddles 
 In sensuous mire or gathers pois'nous weeds ; 
 And the same lips at morn which touched the 
 
 silver 
 Of the Pierian ripple with high yearn, , 
 With snouted appetite roots in the dunghill 
 Circe-transforrtied before the day be done. 
 Old Hans," cried Wolfgang, seizing either 
 
 shoulder 
 And staring in his eyes most pitiless, 
 " Mark how we differ. You go seriously 
 To yoke yourself, for play and work-a-day, 
 
100 MELCHIOR. [part ix. 
 
 All life, with a low, hollow, gaudy woman, 
 The dish is tasteless, gross, and you must eat it. 
 Now I have fixed mine eye on yonder tit-bit 
 Rejected from the table of Von Stern, 
 Who fished her up, and left her on the bank. 
 Der Teufel ! he forgets the slight event. 
 Her beauty wastes itself in yon old garden 
 Among the kitchen herbs and outcast flowers ; 
 She sits as idly there, as idly flaunts 
 The hollyhock beside her all the day." 
 With shrilly whisper, Wolfgang in his ears, 
 " Hans, I will cull that floWer, it were pity 
 To let it droop neglected on its stalk." 
 With that he went, and, like a buzzing wasp. 
 In Hans' ear that evil whisper nestled. 
 " Now, in the name of my good mother," thought 
 
 he, 
 " And, in the name of loving sisters three. 
 If I can thwart, he shall not do this shame, " 
 I'll warn this woman, towards whom sets my pity. 
 This wanderer, for whom my heart is full. 
 
PART IX.] MELCHIOR. ipi 
 
 And she shall know what man her tempter is." 
 He passed the bridge tower, and beneath the 
 
 tiles 
 Of rooftd bridge he passed, where pictured 
 
 quaintly 
 The ancient feuds — the f^tes municipal, 
 With date and scroll below in German rhyme. 
 
PART X. 
 
 Ou'rsiDE the convent an old garden lay, 
 Untended, rank with weeds : — blue cockle, 
 
 darnel. 
 Ragwort and groundsel, and the hairy nettle. 
 And sinewy burdock, a low commonwealth, 
 Grew in equality with a lush squalor 
 Shoulder to shoulder with the graceful flowers ; 
 And, through the briar-woven fence, the wood- 
 bine. 
 And, simple as an infant's tale, the bell 
 Of white convolvulus lay on its leaf. 
 There sat the stranger in her soft green kirtle, 
 Her chin upon her hand, nigh' all the day. 
 The children passed to school, dawdled a moment. 
 Stared mutely, and passed on ; the beggar group 
 
PART X.] MELCHIOR. 103 
 
 But half approached, she was so pensive sad, 
 No whining word was uttered, they passed on. 
 The dappled hen, with its thin piping note. 
 Scratched at the flowers, and never heeded her. 
 Before her lay the duckweed pool, rank green. 
 Encamping round it, the embattled rushes : 
 And it is set with diamonds, priceless-bright. 
 And these are eyes that watch you. Hark ! 
 
 the croaks : 
 It is a solemn conference of frogs ; 
 At every croak their glassy tonsils swell 
 And stretch to bursting ; now and then a leap 
 And a fat splash break the solemnity, ~^ 
 Tearing the green woof with a purple rent. 
 These frogs in endless colloquy about her 
 Goggled at her with notes of deep conjecture. 
 
 Beneath the ruined w-all, reflected, dimly 
 In gay green pool, a thicket of brown fern, 
 That seemed like ribs of some lost pigmy race, 
 So withered - dry were they, and the great 
 
 burdock. 
 
104 MELCHIOR. [part x. 
 
 With grasping fingers joined by withered webs, 
 Looked like a kelpie's hand. Beside her grew 
 The stately hollyhock in buttoned livery, 
 And still behind her on the garden wall 
 -These straggling roses seemed like cherub's 
 
 heads. 
 Past her the beetle swept in reckless speed, 
 That wandering monk with his wild vesper 
 
 hymn. 
 The belted bee, with low important hum. 
 Trolling a secret to the listening woodbine 
 That lifts its trumpet ear with honeyed patience. 
 She heeded nothing, always seated there. 
 That place, even to this day is called the Lady's • 
 
 Field. 
 She would have seemed less sad if she had 
 
 wept. 
 She would have seemed less lonely had she 
 
 sighed ; 
 But there was such a melancholy patience, 
 Which hinted of no hope, for nothing waiting, 
 
PART X.] MELCHIOR. los- 
 
 For nothing listing, and for nothing living, 
 That patience blank, when spent nerves ache 
 
 no more. 
 Hans stood beside her, cornered hat in hand ; 
 " Lady," he said, in gentlest key, " Your pardon, 
 I am a friend of Melchior von Stem." 
 She raised her eyes, " He hath forgotten me." 
 " Lady," he said, " if Melchior were come 
 There were no need of me ; I am Hans 
 
 Stultz." 
 She looked up in his face in rueful silence. 
 And when Hans saw that lovely stony grief, 
 His heart fell in a ferment of compassion. 
 " I did not think that anything could touch 
 
 me," 
 Said Hans, disturbed by that long silent gaze, 
 " Outside my little ring of wretchedness ; 
 Indeed, if I were happy, I were loth 
 To come, for light gives outline to the shadow. 
 But Lady, there's a kinship in distress, 
 And pity for thee took me by the throat." 
 
io6 MELCHIOR. [part x. 
 
 Then, daunted by her dumbness, desperate 
 
 grown, 
 " For that word ' pity ' fallen from my lips. 
 Lady, I merit smiting on the mouth. 
 None more revering a pure woman's sori-ow 
 Ever approached, to shield her, or to comfort. 
 I would as lief make question to a queen 
 Of the state secret lurking in her thought. 
 As probe thy grief by curious watch or word." 
 Trcfubled by. her mute vigil on his face. 
 And by her beauty, he cried suddenly, 
 " As lief would I lift up mine idle speech 
 When the chasubled Priest uplifts the Host 
 As now intrude an insolent compassion. 
 But one approaches who would dare blaspheme 
 The very fane of innocence, take vantage 
 As wrecker of the ship upon the shoal, — 
 Make overture, that ere my lips could utter 
 To any woman may they set in death. 
 We have among us a fierce, reckless sculptor, 
 A profligate ; his name is Wolfgang Hoff. 
 
PART X.] MELCHIOR. 107 
 
 He comes — await him not — retire within." 
 She smiled — that smile was sadder than a sigh, 
 " If he who drew me back to life, unwitting. 
 Come not to shelter me, listless am I 
 Though yonder ci^uel town came crowding 
 
 hither, 
 Men and their wives and children, crying 
 
 'Shame.'" 
 With that her gaze fell from his face. Hans 
 
 murmured, 
 " If he should question, be thine answers brief, 
 If he should tempt, hear him, yet listen not, 
 For there is danger — Pray you, pardon me." 
 Had honest Hans deponed a shadow lay 
 Across yon pathway from the roadside elm, 
 She had not been less moved — smiling her 
 
 thanks, 
 She placed her chin upon her hand again. 
 And Hans, struck foolish, bowed and went his 
 
 way. 
 Hans had the glow of a good deed within him 
 
io8 MELCHIOR. [part x. 
 
 As he was stepping o'er the ruined wall 
 To reach the bank, full of that lady's woe, 
 Confronting him, the scowling Wolfgang stood. 
 " What dost thou here ?" said he, with levelled 
 
 brow. 
 " I come as thou dost come, to see the stranger." 
 " What hast thou said of me ?" between his 
 
 teeth. 
 Asked Wolfgang. Mildest things at bay, 'tis 
 
 said, 
 Will raise their crests. " You meant to tempt 
 
 her, Wolfgang, 
 A poor defenceless lamb, and I have warned 
 
 her ; 
 Be just to thine own self, and pardon me." 
 Wolfgang, with back of hand, smote that meek 
 
 face. 
 Leaving a red weal on his placid cheek. 
 And all the air around was filled with sparks. 
 " Thus I requite thy meddling charity." 
 Outraged, amazed, with a resentful flash 
 
PART X.] MELCHIOR. 109 
 
 Hans turned and struck — on iron fell his blow, 
 That welded sinewy arm ; and merciless 
 Fell the quick spite of Wolfgang's open hand 
 Upon the other cheek. Hans spun around — 
 Lost sense — when it returned, his foe was gone. 
 He reeled away with bitterness at heart. 
 His brain confused, and void of any counsel. 
 If he in Wolfgang met a ban-dog fierce, 
 At grey bridge tower, alas ! he met a scorpion. 
 His wife had watched him, dogging him along. 
 And, through a medium of low jealousy. 
 Beheld this scene of chivalry abashed — 
 Bright was it, as we know — to her all yellow 
 With jaundiced and contorting jealousy. 
 "Ah! thou fat mitcher, have I tracked thee down ? 
 So thou, art on thy evening wantoning ; 
 For meddling thou hast met with chastisement. 
 Thy gallantry, it seems, took only scorn." 
 
 " Thou art unjust," cried Hans with watery 
 eye, 
 " This lady is so friendless, castaway. 
 
no MELCHIOR. [part x. 
 
 Out lof all singleness I came to warn 
 And counsel her against an ambushed danger." 
 "Counsel and warn ! I watched you, profligate, 
 I never knew the office of a sheep 
 Was to protect the fold — thou hypocrite ! 
 Just bow and ogle once again for me. 
 Gentlemen of your build should keep at home. 
 When you leave home, you're like a stone from 
 
 sling. 
 But coming home you limp, cast wandering 
 
 eyes 
 On every idle wench, who scoffs at you." 
 So she regaled him all along the bridge. 
 And up the street the mournful way to home. 
 This the reward to Hans for his good deed. 
 
PART XI. 
 
 No art had Wolfgang more than hoofed' satyr, 
 
 In his accost of women, low or gentle, 
 
 And not a whit of reverence had he. 
 
 Beauty for him was but a toy to break, 
 
 And woman's tears, a relish to the fancy.' 
 
 In working hours her presence out of place. 
 
 Her pretty angers only food for banter : 
 
 Her grief a subtle stimulant to passion. 
 
 If he could meet. with such a thing as virtue. 
 
 Lowly to it he would uncover him. 
 
 A Frau at seventy doubtless might be virtuous, 
 
 To her he'd bow. He would not argue on it. 
 
 Whether all women be without the pale. 
 
 But w;ith some savage epigram rejoin. 
 
 And in this question was he obdurate, 
 
112 MELCHIOR. [PART XI. 
 
 Logic and facts he brutally ignored. 
 
 As he approached, the measured, heavy plant 
 
 Of foot aroused her — she looked sharply 
 
 round. 
 "Without much ceremony — pretty Fraiilein — 
 You came among us like a Kermesse sprite 
 Who tumbles on the scene and strikes a pose. 
 You watch and wait for Melchior von Stern?" 
 " Art thou his friend, mein Herr ?" " I know 
 
 him well. 
 He hath deserted or forgotten thee ;" 
 As on the glassy stream there floats a dimple, 
 Then whirls away — so on the stranger's brow 
 The dint of pain appears and smooths again. 
 Reckless and abject so she spake to him 
 As might she to her lonely self, unheeding. 
 "He hath forgotten me. I've waited daily. 
 And other steps have come and startled me 
 With expectation. Now I start no more. 
 Now know I that he hath forgotten me ; 
 For I have daily seen him pass afar, 
 
PART XI.] MELCHIOR. 113 
 
 And thought at first my gaze would draw him 
 A 
 hither. 
 
 But now I kiiow he will not look at me. 
 
 My steps may wear a pathway to yon portal 
 
 And back again ere he will come to me." 
 
 " Melchior, mein Schatz, hath often visitors, 
 
 He holds his ghostly levee privately, 
 
 German Arminius rises silver-mailed, 
 
 Glittering like sun-touched salmon in the ray. 
 
 And waves his war-axe o'er the slaughtered 
 
 legions. 
 
 Eastern Zenobia, with her jewelled train. 
 
 Like a pale comet sailing into sight, 
 
 Flames silent past, and in the' wall dissolves. 
 
 The sad Saint Catherine and Saint Barbara 
 
 Chide forth the pagan rout with fronts severe 
 
 Upraised, and starred, and ringed with floating 
 
 light. 
 
 Then comes his love — ^the saint of melody 
 
 (Blanca uplifts her head like listening bird.). 
 
 Start not — this love of his you ipight ensconce 
 
114 MELCHIOR. [part XI. 
 
 Within a child's pomander — she is dust." 
 
 " You mock me," sighed she, with her dubious 
 
 eyes 
 Fixed on him — "am I worth the mock, mein 
 
 Herr?" 
 " I do not mock, mein Schatz — I read thy 
 
 thoughts. 
 Hadst thou been now a ghost — as well thou 
 
 might'st. 
 Then hadst thou joined the levee of the dead 
 And been more welcome than in flesh and 
 
 blood. 
 I read thy thoughts by gazing on thy face. 
 There was one woman's face, inscrutable. 
 And, for this reason, none dare look on it : 
 See, here she is — the mythic dame. Medusa," 
 He drew a silver bracelet from his wallet, 
 It was a piece of curious handiwork, ^ 
 
 A hundred snakes gaped o'er her writhing brow, 
 Their bodies curled behind in venomed plait, 
 So subtly interlaced, none could retrace 
 
PART XI.] MELCHIOR. 115 
 
 Its proper tail to any fang^d head. 
 
 He took her wrist and smiled — "Permit me, 
 
 Fraiilein, 
 To clasp it on thine arm. Take it from me." 
 She coldly put aside the shining gift, 
 " Mein Herr, I have not worn the brooch he 
 
 gave me, 
 Why should I v^&dx your gift?" 
 Still, in his nut-brown bony hand he kept 
 Her lithe and blue-veined wrist — she left it there 
 With a 'cold carelessness. " Fraiilein," he said. 
 With sentiment and confidence of tone, 
 "Throw in thy lot with me— none care for thee, 
 I am a man shunned, feared, and loved by none, 
 I have nor fear nor hope of any living : ' 
 Mine is a lone and melancholy lot. 
 Come, play the children's game of love with me. 
 I offer thee a hon\e, where merry tinkles 
 The hammer on the chisel-r— sculptor, I — 
 And I will give such honour to blank marble 
 By lucent dawn of thy young pensive head ! 
 
ii6 MELCHIOR. [part XI. 
 
 And thou shalt see its snowy beauty grow. 
 Folk say I can be kind : — whom I protect 
 None dare lift supercilious brow against, 
 Or I should crush it underneath my heel. 
 Abide with me while it shall list thee, Liebchen, 
 Be it from noon to noon, or year to year ; 
 Part when it lists thee, or abide with me." 
 "And you would make me your leman?" she 
 
 said, 
 " You wrong me in your thought unwittingly." 
 She coldly shook her head — "You know me 
 
 not." 
 He dropt her wrist, and, with a scoffing smile, 
 " Know you ? — Aye, by the god of flies ! / 
 
 know you ! 
 All women are the same in root and core. 
 Take thou a bunch of juicy young shallots 
 Green stemmed and ivory bulbed, and plant 
 
 them out. 
 Some under grassy shade, which shall absbrb 
 The choicest sunshine — some in the rough fallow. 
 
PART XI.] MELCHIOR. 117 
 
 Where they shall rankly thrive at broad hap- 
 hazard,: 
 Send some to flourish 'neath a Southern sun, 
 Others to stunt beneath the Northern winds, 
 Still all grow green and ivory-bulbed shallots ; 
 And so it is with women." Carelessly 
 He rose and left her. 
 
 Some little gall within him shed its bitter 
 Upon stung vanity — 'twas but a moment. 
 Down to the river bank he lightly strolled. 
 Drew forth his pistol, and with careless laugh, 
 Fired in the air in whim of petulance : 
 And down the river rang the sharp report, 
 And every little roosting bird took flight. 
 The tomtit darted from the ivy clump 
 Its little head still warm from downy wing. 
 The thrush upon the pine top, dived below 
 And skimmed the grass, away into a thicket ; 
 And from the yew the blackbird shrieked and 
 
 fled. 
 While from the clover field, with many twinklings 
 
ii8 MELCHIOR." [part XI. 
 
 Of small grey wings, the linnets sped away. 
 
 A germ of mischief lit his steel grey eye, 
 
 And shot the crowfeet out at either corner, 
 » 
 
 Yet in the thought was no malignity. 
 
 " Here is a waste of love, a tale untold, 
 
 A drooping nymph enamoured of a cloud. * 
 
 Since she is not for me I'll make my sport 
 
 Earthwards to draw the dreaming cloud to her. 
 
 Ere night shall fall, I'll drop the sly infection 
 
 In Melchior's thought, and watch its stealthy 
 
 growth. 
 Now misty Saint Cecilia hold thine own 
 Against warm flesh and blood — a Magdelen 
 Shall sit beneath a martyr's canopy. 
 If men be what they were when I was young, 
 I'll gage my life there is no change in woman." 
 
PART XII. 
 
 Upon the verdant border of the town 
 A shy still life led Melchior von Stern. 
 The cornfields flg.nked him with delightful plains, 
 In aisles of fluted gold the tall wheat stood, 
 And scarlet bannerets — the poppies wild — 
 Made all triumphal ; there the skylarks lurked. 
 Or trembled o'er, small dots of feathered rapture^ 
 These cornfields were so rich, so fine, so lone. 
 Now was the moment when the evening spell 
 Of spectral gold fell over all the land. 
 Behind the gabled house the scented limes 
 Threw up a trembling screen against the east. 
 And hid the walls with jealous- palisade. 
 There was an autumn doze upon the king cups 
 In grassy fields : buzzing, belated bees 
 
120 MELCHIOR. [PART XII. 
 
 Above the purple clover hiveward bound, 
 But loth to leave the lavishihentof sweets. 
 The garden was all lonely — Flemish — prim, 
 The frilled carnations with grey spiky leaves 
 Like olden knightly rowels ; winged sweet pea 
 On its frail stalk, each blossom pondering flight, 
 And feathery larkspur in its azure pride. 
 And marigolds like little groundling suns 
 Shed orange radiance through the mimic sky 
 Of blue forget-me-nots in clustered drifts. 
 Dark pansies in a hooded quaker throng, 
 Two purple hoods that hide one golden fancy. 
 Tall queenly lilies towered in scented ranks, 
 tVhite troops of spirits looked they rapt and 
 
 waiting 
 For some disciple of the olden, time, 
 Or martyred saint to Come and raise the hymn 
 Which slumbered on their curled and marble 
 
 -lips; 
 
 White gossip butterflies, flirting mid-air, ' 
 
 Now flapping on a flower at radiant whim, 
 
PARTXii.] MELCHIOR. 121 
 
 Now gadding on the wind without a goal, 
 Haunted the placie-;— and slightly knew each 
 
 flower. 
 And at the garden end a dying elm 
 Of scored and grisly bark bent all its shelter 
 Above an old sarcophagus of marble 
 With resurrection symbols — curvM grooves 
 Showed Christian sepulture ; once in the cata- 
 combs ; •; 
 It haunted Melchior's garden. Yellow drip, 
 • The mossy soil of years wrought their chance 
 
 medley 
 Of picture — tricksome battles, forests, mountains. 
 Fantastic seas round Jonah and the whale 
 Carved on its front — legend of Christian hope. 
 The high-peaked gabled house mantled in green. 
 Claimed thoughtful, verdant kindred with its lawn. 
 Direct the half-door opened on the garden, 
 But 'neath a tendrilled torrent tenting over. 
 The passiqn-flower tree that darkly clung 
 Up to the eaves, twisted in -matted richness. 
 
122 MELCHIOR. [part XII. 
 
 Its glowing fruit flared out or coyly glimmered 
 Like lurking fire, as if the foliage kindled ; 
 And starry on the tissue of sad green, 
 Its livid blossoms pale as dying Christ. 
 
 A large and shadowy chamber gloomed beneath. 
 Within the wainscot's panels in relief 
 Were carven trumpets, bass viols and lyres. 
 Above upon an edging of dead gold 
 Notation ranj the larga, brevis, verga. 
 The punctus, longa, semibreve and minim, 
 Chroma and semichroma, with their rests. 
 Some a cornelion red, some ebon black, 
 Square-headed, ranged upon their quarterclefs. 
 In rich relief upon the panelled walls 
 Were girlish seraphs, parting hymning lips, 
 Wrought by some German De la Robbia — 
 Whilst round the beamed ceil were Latin 
 mottos — 
 
 Musica Mortales divosque oblectat et ornat. 
 
 Dis homines miscet terrigenisque deos. • 
 Upon the stately stove,— ^cathedral-towered, 
 
PART XII.] MELCHIOR. 123 
 
 And green as peacock's lustre, — statuettes 
 Of ruddy Strasburg marble, pensive stood. 
 Set on an easel in the open light 
 A picture beamed ; — 'twas Hans' masterpiece. 
 Down an oblique of stairs came a procession 
 Of dairies and thoughtful men,^ and shaven 
 
 monks. 
 Save for the golden hair — the silvery glow 
 Of faces, and the head-gear ivory white. 
 And sable monks, all was of varied blues — 
 The unclouded background and the thronged 
 
 attires : 
 The delicate, the deep, the bright, the tender. 
 The blue allied to purple or to green. 
 Or dainty turquoise were enwoven there 
 In chastened sunshine — music, on one string. 
 Of gemmed richness — 'twas the wizard hand 
 Of genius wrought that colour and that light. 
 
 Beside the window in the twilight green 
 Of ivy gloom an organ, spiral-piped 
 And treadled, caught a dancing light that played 
 
124 MELCHIOR. [part xii. 
 
 Through quivering gloss of leaf. From hairy- 
 stem 
 
 Within the room thronged up exuberant, 
 
 The ivy thickets' in green mutiny ; 
 
 Peeped round the shutter, sending stealthy 
 tendrils 
 
 Across the panels, seizing everything 
 
 With hundred verdurous kisses clinging close. 
 
 The clavichord, propped on its slender legs. 
 
 Stood open on the brown-waxed parquet floor. 
 
 And there were dainty pictures miniatured 
 
 Over its cover and its amber sides, 
 
 While inlaid wreaths of flowers trimmed its 
 . edges. 
 
 Old instruments, the Viola de Gamba, 
 
 Tromba Marina, encased violins. 
 
 Lay on the shelves or stood against the panel, 
 
 And some old volumes, parchment bound, 
 unclasped. 
 
 Lay carelessly about on chair or cushion. 
 
 As if Old Time himself had wandered in, 
 
PART xii.] MELCHIOR. ' 125 
 
 His hoary forelock swept the ancient tome, 
 And there he had been reading and had gone. 
 Melchior von Stern, a tall and goodly man, 
 Was broad-browed, with a dreamy. Teuton face. 
 His thick brown hair, queue-bound, was shot 
 
 with bronze, 
 His restful eye was of a lightsome blue 
 That bluer seemed from his clear vellum skin ; 
 His voice had charm and change unspeakable, 
 His heart spoke in it and yet tranquilly. 
 For through his nature lurked a shy reserve 
 In aught that touched his privacy. He shed 
 A quiet sympathy, a regal kindness. 
 But ever masked in gentle, humorous sally. 
 As if to cheat you of your gratitude, 
 A singleness of, purpose and of love 
 Unmotived — simple instinct of the heart. 
 The nerves high strung were under mastery. 
 And tempered by a tide of sympathy. 
 Sometimes a wistfulness, a hectic mood 
 Came — not his own — an alien to his nature. 
 
126 MELCHIOR. [part xii. 
 
 As falls the gust upon a dreaming tree 
 And shivers through it to its greenest nook, 
 Its birds cease singing and all falls to sighs. 
 Rich through his mother, he was boundless 
 
 good. 
 All felt it needing it, from bird to beggar. 
 He was a worshipper of liberty ; 
 Not that soiled word, that vulgar party cry. 
 But supple tread through woods, free dreams in 
 
 meadows, 
 And boundless airy climbings on the hills. 
 Twice every year he bought caged little 
 
 birds 
 And with a kingly hand he flung them free. 
 He talked to them even as Saint Francis 
 
 preached — 
 To their quick little heads and myriad hops ; 
 Watching with envious eye their tiny transport^ 
 " So would I fly, and lose myself in leaves. 
 And make no music but one woodland note." — 
 Thus might he sigh as he gazed after them. 
 
PART XII.] , MELCHIOR. 127 
 
 He worshipped liberty, and was a slave — 
 His life was haunted — ^light not of the sun, 
 And shadows felling from no solid form, 
 And voices nevtr formed' isjn fleshly lip, 
 And in the solitudqs some regnant Presence. 
 
PART XIII. 
 
 THE GEISTER-SEER. 
 
 Like that wan fleece — the moon — in full noon- 
 day, 
 Faith wanes amid the din and blaze of life ; 
 But, in the twilight of the lonely home, 
 It burns with its divine or baleful brilliance. 
 Shadows thicken to forms, and sounds to voices. 
 From phantom day to day did Melchior live. 
 That midnight vision of his spectral self 
 Had touched his heart with a foreboding chill, 
 It was not fear, and scarce was it regret. 
 Across his haunted path he saw his grave 
 And knew the day — his house was set in order ; 
 His work was done ; but sometimes youth and 
 strength • '' 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 129 
 
 Rose 'neath the closing meshes of his fate. 
 Passion, Ambition, Life, and Nature, pled 
 That he should shake the cerements from his 
 
 mind, 
 Arise, and live, and go forth in the sun. 
 
 Nature said to him : — " Live, oh ! live for 
 ' me : 
 My meadows bloom around, spread daintily ,' 
 Hast thou forgot how full of reverie 
 Are cowslip-perfumes as thou liest along 
 On the sheathed grasses ? and the daffodils 
 With sloping necks and scented cups of gold ? 
 The glassy virginals of running waters ? 
 The fugues ecstatic of my myriad choirs ? 
 In every grove and lawn — untold delight ! 
 Elfin allurements — atom melodies 
 Under each green leaf's fairy canopy ; 
 White twinklings and green beckonings every- 
 where ! 
 Out of the vapoury quarries of my clouds 
 
 My windy masons shall build fantasies 
 K 
 
I30 MELCHIOR. [part xiii. 
 
 To trick thy fancy — or carve Titan's heads 
 Reclining 'gainst the everlasting blue. 
 Oh live ! oh ! live for me ! " 
 
 And Passion, with warm whisper, plucked 
 his sleeve : 
 " Wilt thou forego delight ? , Oh ! live for me : 
 Have I not shot into thy lagging pulse 
 My fine delicious spark, which in an instant 
 Tingled through every vein ? 
 A joyous herald with an eager trump. 
 At which the hea;rt flung open triumph-gates 
 To welcome in some queen — fair — fancy-born. 
 My flushed, unholy blossoms have I wreathed 
 In nightly sleep above thy pallid brow 
 Till the blood came. 
 
 And then I sent to thee my nestling dreams 
 Of moist red lips and winding, loving arms ; 
 And thou hast waked— my kiss upon thy lips. 
 And' through the dome of music in thy soul. 
 Where echoing melody floats round and round, ; 
 My luscious fire-throb lit thy pearly shrines, 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 131 
 
 Hath often lent a rich luxurious glow 
 To thy cold purities and bloodless splendours. 
 Or, if so soon, thou givest life, good-ni^ht, 
 Then taste my chalice offered to thy lips. 
 Art thou a priest to waste thy flower of youth 
 In sullied' struggles for the masterdom? 
 To wage an ignominious war against me, 
 And make the mind a Corinth of thine heart ; 
 Thy victory but tarnished and half-won ; 
 To conquer by degraded martyrdom ? 
 Oh! live for me!" 
 
 Ambition called to him from far : " Oh ! 
 
 live ; 
 Fill up the master-measure of thy toil. 
 Oh ! wilt, thou have it said — that saddest 
 
 phrase — 
 "Tis well — alas! how much he might ^h.a.v& 
 
 done.' 
 Great germs of unborn music die with thee, 
 Unfinished scores of tenderest melody 
 Lie waiting life, like half-built palaces 
 
132 MELCHIOR. [pari xiii. 
 
 Which none can finish but one brain that's dust. 
 Handel and Bach died in their full-orbed fame ; 
 Thy kindling cusps must meet in one bright 
 
 sphere, 
 Or they will wane, nor rise o'er Time's horizon. 
 Dearer than Love, than Gold, than Power, my 
 
 guerdons 
 To poets' hearts, the glory of my smile ; 
 But in the grave there is no glory more ; 
 Oh! live for me!" 
 
 And sometimes, startled Life snatched up 
 
 her brief. 
 Woke Instinct, her dumb thrall — rung her 
 
 alarum : 
 " Awake ! for thou art in a league with Death, 
 And fight'st against me with thy faineant will ; 
 Awake ! and look, and list ! What are thy 
 
 bodings ? — 
 But sayings in a dream which seem of moment. 
 But, to the waking ear, are murmurous voids. . 
 Do not thy pulses march with healthful rhythm? 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 133 
 
 Nor hastes the ' Now, now, now ' of vital breath? 
 Vain was that phantom and its empty voice 
 Which seemed to thee to shadow forth thine 
 
 end. ; 
 'Twas thine own boding on that weeping night — 
 'Twas but the echo of the woe within. 
 Go forth upon the slope and drink the wind. 
 And run until its pantings by thine ears 
 Seem wings in Hermes' cap, and cry, 'I live!'" 
 
 At shut of day, when he had softly closed 
 The sweet well-tempered clavichord, and sate 
 Alone in darkness— r-oft he heard a sound 
 That grew, yet seemM neither near nor far ; 
 Akin to sounds in shells, or distant breathings 
 Of sea-surfs rustling o'er a shingly strand : 
 It swelled into a solemn saintly chant ; 
 But, whether in the chamber or without. 
 Or iri the listener's brain, he could not tell. 
 Then words began to form, and through the door 
 Entered a train of antique-vestured women 
 In girdled stola, palla ghostly white. 
 
134 MELCHIOR. [part xm* 
 
 Gathered with fibula of old device 
 Upon the shoulder, — sandals on the feet. 
 Each held a palm-branch in her bloodless hand, 
 Their "faces raptured-white — raised steadfastly 
 As though they saw heaven opened — and a 
 
 ring 
 Of floating light moved over every head. 
 And on each breast a sad swart stain of blood. 
 As stilly as a throng of mi^lky clouds 
 They glided^ — at each step of sandalled foot 
 The long white vesture rose and fell responsive. 
 Their lips moved, but the words seemed in the 
 
 air. 
 And this the burden coming at each close, 
 Like answers to a spectral Litany : 
 "In manus iuas, Domine, animam meam com- 
 
 With steadfast, gaze and pace they passed 
 
 without, 
 Down through the garden — through the lily 
 
 ranks. 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 135 
 
 And each one as she went did pluck a lily, 
 Then onward to the cenotaph they moved, 
 And here they ranged in gleaming throng 
 
 around, 
 And "Requiescat" chanted. — 
 Their nimbi in a luminous line enwoven, 
 Blending their rings, lay out in moony tracts 
 Shaped like long cedar boughs limned in pale 
 
 flame. 
 Glistened beneath, each head and each white 
 
 shoulder. 
 The lilies lit like stars, the fea,thery tips 
 Of palm-branch caught a ray — and on the grass 
 There lay a ghostly light. 
 And then they formed their train, and passed 
 
 again, 
 Up through the garden — gleaming through the 
 
 room, ' 
 The rings of light moved with them, and the 
 
 chant, 
 Which seemed to hang above. They vanished so. 
 
136 MELCHIOR. [part XIII. 
 
 And oft'times, in the noonday, dropped a voice 
 As note of hidden bird in lonely wood : 
 "Melchior!" it said — "Melchior!" — and no- 
 thing more : 
 It seemed as if its birth were in the air. 
 Whene'er with lavish hands he flung the music, 
 Like incense in the air-^in globes of tune, 
 He felt some listening figure stood behind. ' 
 And then three women clothed in Syrian vest 
 Entered at evening, ere the silver tongue 
 Of the Domkirche had died' in long vibration 
 A warning of the dark. 
 
 Their faces stern and cold were vaguely traced. 
 The tremulous outline of their figures mingled 
 With the dusk air, and, dim as cobweb films, — 
 As you have seen the shadows on the ceiling 
 Flit by, cast by the wayfarers without, — 
 So fitful, unsubstantial, Were these shadows; 
 And to the ghostly arras on the wall, 
 As vain as they themselves, they straight 
 addressed 
 
PARTxm.] MELCHIOR. 137 
 
 Their bending forms and flickering hands to 
 
 weave. 
 He thought he traced upon that woof and weft 
 The history of his life and natal' home 
 In Nuremberg — high roof and sculptured front ; 
 The place-r-the time — seemed in another's life — 
 Dim fragments of a fresco faded out. 
 The vast cathedral aisle — -the gilded pipes 
 Of the great organ well beloved — the fount 
 Of hope — of beauty — and of earliest pride. 
 Upon the trembling grandeur of its voice 
 His very heart in youth did ride and soar 
 So high that it seemed touched by heavenly 
 
 light. 
 And his first music-triumph in St. Sebald's, 
 When he was hailed a master — sought and 
 
 courted. 
 They loved not what he loved, and knew not 
 
 what they lauded. 
 And many shadowy traceries were there, 
 Some half-remembered, as a dim blue grove 
 
138 MELCHIOR. [part xiii. 
 
 That melts in sky ; and others too are there 
 
 Pain-fraught, or full of an exalted joy. 
 
 And now they worked upon a monument, 
 
 With name and date in olden black-letter : 
 
 " Melchior von Stern." 
 
 'Twas in his youth, when Life and Death were 
 
 Ibcked 
 In desperate grapple o'er his couch, for him, 
 And Death was almost victor. 
 The first conception came, a radiant sail 
 Upon the tempest of those raging pulses ; 
 Bland music fell like oil upon the waves — 
 The Saint of Music, charming Death away. 
 When he arose, and Life had won her child, , 
 The hymning echoes one by one returned. 
 And his young manhood, given to the task 
 Of Saint Cecilia's life, to music wrought, ■ 
 Turned all its petalled fervour to her light. 
 Call it a dream, an ecstasy, a madness, 
 Her tutelaty presence seemed to him 
 Sometimes. to visit him, and pour her spirit 
 
PART xni.] MELCHIOR. 139 
 
 Into his heart and brain, his music guiding, 
 And lending holy grandeur to its ring. 
 Upon the lip of errant knight, the name 
 Of patron saint sits like the plume on helm. 
 The eye of pagan poet was upraised 
 Xo await the fervent whisper of his muse, 
 This Saint of Music — she who gave to worship 
 The solemn pealing organ, thunderous sweet 
 And trembling holy — ^she was to his spirit 
 The idol of a pure, unsensuous worship — 
 Unreasoned, dominant, yet intermittent ; 
 As in a. mirror, vivid floats a face, 
 But shift the glass, 'tis gone, a^ain 'tis there 
 Even as the surface slope — so in the crowd, 
 'Mid sound of waking life, her image faded. 
 But, in the lonely life, when Music's spell 
 Searched all his spirit, she, his patron saint, 
 Took body in his mind, as lovely star 
 Enters the field of the set telescope. 
 And then the longing came, the hope — the 
 prayer. 
 
140 MELCHIOR. [part xiii. 
 
 As when in fixed and fevered vigil set 
 
 We stretch, and watch and pine till one should 
 
 come — 
 A precious one whom our prayer-laden sighs, 
 And grieving -patience, could they reach, must 
 
 move ; 
 But they are lost and perish in sick longings : 
 At every passing step the hope takes fire, 
 And, when 'tis past, flickers and dies the hope ; 
 We watch and faint, and send forth wish and will. 
 As if these magnet-messengers avail , 
 To draw the lingerer to our hungering love ; 
 And so comes hopeless apathy awhile. 
 And so comes joy, like poor rash bud that blows 
 In winter sunshine, only born for blight. 
 In dreams alone she came to him — his Saints 
 Save once. Is he less pure or true in service? 
 Or, faints his prayer ? or fails his offering ? 
 Or, less acceptable the waneless worship 
 Of boyhood, and of manhood ? Consecrate, 
 His genius was to her — the Saint of Music. 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 141 
 
 When Morning paints a lattice on his wall, 
 His thought was hef's, and her's his earliest 
 
 prayer ; 
 And When, with fobbing leap, his night-lamp 
 
 dies. 
 His latest thought and prayer to her ascend. 
 At dead of night, when, on the moorland Sleep, 
 The wildfire dreams start up and flit before us. 
 Changing their form and voice with goblin 
 
 whim, — 
 She had vouchsafed to him clear shining visions 
 That, beaming down the shadowy crypts of 
 
 Time, 
 Brought back to him white annals of her life. 
 That he might know — and to. blind Faith give 
 
 eyes, 
 That he might see her — his elect — beloved. 
 Of them he wove his masterpiece of music. 
 From youth to death : by her it seemed inspired 
 With moving grandeur and large melody. 
 In sleep these shifting pictures came to him. 
 
142 MELCHIOR. , [part xiil. 
 
 A peristyle of a patrician mansion, 
 And antique sunshine on its colonnades. 
 The glassy frisk of water never ceased, 
 And all around the ruddy flame of -flowers, 
 Blooms of the oleander, and of roses. 
 And daintiest red on the flamingo's plume, 
 That, in a pensive tameness, solemn paced. 
 Like barbs of ebon, darted,- dipped, and soared 
 The swallows, in the deep and breezeless blue. 
 And such a trilling, wild, sweet burst of Pan- 
 pipes 
 Was never known to pierce a Satyr's dell, 
 Or flow from the Apulian shepherd's lip. 
 Against a pillar leant the youth Valerian, 
 His toga rimmed with purple laticlave. 
 He stood — his sandalled feet crossed carelessly ; 
 With ranged pipes he slightly brushed his lip 
 At quivering speed, and played a hymn to 
 Pan. 
 By sheeny fountain sate young Cecily, 
 A, golden vitta bound her yellow hair. 
 
PARTxiii.] MELCHIOR. 143, 
 
 And filmy white her stola, violet-rimmed ; 
 May-bright her face, and yet upon her brow 
 May's lightest reverie of cloud^she watched 
 
 the Pan-pipes 
 As if some inspiration, angel-whispered. 
 Had shone within. An instant all was 
 
 changed ; — 
 The ranged pipes flashed up to golden tubes, 
 The youth was gone, and, at the open keys 
 Of pictured organ, Saint Cecilia sate, 
 Crowned with musky roses, white and red — 
 Emblems of passion and of purity'; 
 Sad lip, and burnished hair, and outspread hands,. 
 She bent in time; to music of the skies. 
 Holy and worthy were those trembling chords 
 To bear the burden heavenward of praise. 
 Of benison, and echo, far Hosannas. 
 Through ravished amber evening, shadowless. 
 Came mild-eyed Seraphs folding tinted wings^ 
 And Cherubs laid their dimpled lily cheeks 
 Caressingly against her cheek and hair. — 
 
144 MELCHIOR. [part XIII. 
 
 All shifted at the beck of wizard Sleep. — 
 In that vast burrowed labyrinth of Death — 
 The Catacombs — he dreamt he stood in awe, 
 Within a clayey cave. — Upon its roof 
 The torchlight glimmered fitfully and shook, 
 While, in the heavy air, a voice uplifted 
 With vaulty echo, raised the funeral prayers. 
 A silent crowd, in shroudy garments, listened. 
 They might have been the resurrection-dead 
 Woke at the trump in a mysterious twilight. 
 And on a slabbed table in their midst 
 Lay a sarcophagus^the Christian symbol 
 Was carven on its front, and Jesu's entry 
 Into Jerusalem was rudely sculptured 
 Thereon by loving hands. The dreamer's eye 
 Could penetrate the stone, and see within 
 Valerian's body fresh from martyrdom. — 
 The wounds were washed, the hair was combM 
 
 smooth. 
 The eyes closed placidly, — a crystal flask 
 With Eucharistic wine, — a branch of palm 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 145 
 
 Lay in his hands. 
 
 And by his side the virgin-widow stood. 
 Her zealous witness, and persuasive love, 
 Had won his soul to Christ the Crucified. 
 Her hands had washen and prepared for burial 
 His mangled body. Now she stood above it. 
 But to the poor remains no moment dropped 
 Her eyelids, ever upwards, upwards gazing. 
 With eye of faith she saw him glorified, 
 Heard her God's welcome, " Good and faithful 
 
 servant ;" 
 She wept glad tears : her head was as a Pleiad, 
 So bright against the niurkiness it rose. 
 Its saintliness — ^to feel it was to kneel ! 
 All vanished, and the solemn voice was gone. — 
 
 An atrium in a patrician's mansion 
 All curtained softly round with Persian silk. 
 By the dead water stood a couch of bronze. 
 And on it slept the saint that sleep He gives. 
 At dawn of day her soul was born in heaven. 
 And the chill light shed from the open sky 
 
146 MELCHIOR. [part xiii. 
 
 On the cold, beauteous clay illumined 
 
 That angel's efRgy she left below. 
 
 White, lily-white, the cheek and praying hands. 
 
 Yet gilded with soiT;ie lines of yellow light. 
 
 Ah ! what a trophy in the lap of Death ! 
 
 When the tombs open shall she wake as fair ? 
 
 Upon the musky roses white and red, 
 
 Her earthly crown that sweetly breathes her 
 life 
 
 With emulous perfume. 
 
 And on the pillow was that yellow light. 
 
 Touched by miraculous and pencilled beam ■ 
 
 That came not from the sun. 
 
 Nor steel nor fire could mar that peerless form, 
 
 And torturing human fiends fell backwards- 
 foiled. , 
 
 A smiling victory was on her lips, 
 
 Because her God was for her, to his beloved 
 
 Graiited a death of painless, perfect peace. 
 
 Grouped at her feet there bent a stricken few 
 
 Of young and old who garnered not their tears.' 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 147 
 
 Worship was drowned in love, then love in 
 
 worship. 
 Youths drooped and mourned, and vied in 
 
 jealous grief, . 
 Which still was chidden back by reverence 
 And comfort of her presence yet among them, 
 Though cold and dead, — so seemed it to the 
 
 dreamer. 
 She was no bride for man, that chosen one. 
 But meet alone to be espoused to Christ. 
 And at this vision Melchior woke in tears. 
 Sometimes these visions manifestly came. 
 And often, half-disclosed and fugitive, 
 Shone they like fragments of the rainy prisni 
 Which dies upon its cloud in dolphin death ; 
 While blissful other times, the joyous arch 
 Spans in a perfect splendour all fulfilled ; 
 Then night became more blessed than the day ! 
 It was in Rome upon an autumn noon. 
 Through St. Cecilia's Church, Trastevere, 
 The lustre of the noonday pierced in shafts. 
 
148 MELCHIOR. [part xiii. 
 
 And laid an offering of silver light 
 Inestimably bright upon, the altar, 
 And up the tribune arch a climbing glory. 
 Gleaming reflections touched the ancient apse, 
 And its mosaic quaint and- dimly old. 
 Upon this spot St. Cecile lived and died, 
 And here the Geister-seer sat and mused 
 And prayed, and placed each day his votive 
 
 candle. 
 Sometimes an unreality assailed him, 
 And his illusive worship paled away. 
 The mournful outcry of his heart went up : 
 " Oh ! thou sweet saint, who fleeth as I follow, 
 l^hy pilgrim finds each day an empty shrine. 
 With nothing but the mouldering lachrymatory 
 Which holds his tears and prayers!" 
 Again Faith kindled up her unfed flame — 
 That wistful fire that shines in childhood's eyes, 
 Stranger to question, smiling-blind to doubt ; ^ 
 That doting mother who for love deceives 
 And wins us to our rest by tender fables, 
 
PART XIII.] MELCHIOR. 149 
 
 Or lifts the beacon of eternal Truth. 
 Then, reinspired, he murmbred, " Thou art near, 
 And I shall see thee yet as thou hast lived, 
 Even as to Pascal thou hast shown thy light. 
 So come to me. I wait, I pray, I long !" 
 And now white Autumn noon had aged to gold, 
 And something whispered in his bosom, " Rise ! 
 Go forth and meet me in the Solitudes ! " 
 Along the Appian Way he wandered, led 
 By whispering impulse — and the vast Campagna 
 Was spread before him beyond giant piles 
 Of spectral ruin. Forth he went alone, 
 Save for gaunt thistles in their rugged bronze, 
 Acanthus scrollery — starry Asphodel 
 That pried upon his wq.y. 
 Like mighty gates of brass in glittering bars 
 The west was flaming — weltering in light. 
 As robe of an ascending prophet dropt, 
 One pilrple cloud lay solemnly along. 
 The gadding wind, lisping its idle nothings 
 To any ear, pwept with a rustle by. 
 
ISO MELCHIOR. [part xiii. 
 
 As round the traveller on some mountain side 
 A cloud flits suddenly and blots the way, 
 So Melchior was enwrapt — the sky and plain 
 Vanished in radiant vapour — ^he forgot 
 The place, the time, as though he dropped in 
 
 space. 
 The broad wind turned to music — and a form 
 Of starry white was struck erect before him 
 As noiselessly as a white moth alit. 
 A face beatified and meekly lovely 
 Shone out upon him ; round its gracious head 
 Like finest crescent moon the halo hung. 
 Her gaze was on him, moved her spirit-lips, 
 And then his memory left him— ^all was blank. 
 When he arose the deadly mist was floating 
 Upon the plain ; that lustrous cloud was gone. 
 But that transfigured face, as sun on stream, 
 Englassed itself upon his memory. 
 In Melchior's haunted home there nightly 
 
 gleamed 
 The chanting martyrs in their antique dress, 
 
PART XIII J MELCHIOR. 151 
 
 And those three women at the arras wrought, 
 And, like a- hidden bird in forest lone, 
 A voice dropt oftentimes as born in air : 
 "Melchior!" it said — "Melchior!" — and was 
 
 mute : 
 But St-^^cilia came to him no more. 
 
PART XIV. 
 
 A LEGEND runs that once a tuneful Faun 
 Who scarce outrivalled songsters of the trees, 
 Upon his reedy pipe with, wanton trills, 
 Found in a stream, entangled in the weed, 
 A ruined lyre ; between the spiral horns 
 Instead of rich and ringing chords there hung. 
 In mockery of music — oozy slime. 
 The cresses root was in its sounding shell. 
 In mad delight he bent his sprouted head 
 Above his prize, he kissed it, and he laughed, 
 And tenderly he washed its stains away 
 And lifted it on high, and carolled to it. 
 And frisked upon the shadows of the oaks. 
 Then with his fingei-s mimed as if he played 
 A wild and amorous strain upon the void. 
 
PART XIV.] MELCHIOR. 153 
 
 Where trembled out of sight the ravished strings 
 When Orpheusi struck them to the wondering 
 woods. 
 
 No more the shepherd hears at dreamful eve 
 The merry shrilling of the reedy pipe 
 Come up the dells in little brooks of sound- 
 A wondrous flood of golden ecstasy 
 Turned all blue heaven to music. From the 
 
 heart 
 Of slumbrous woods, that music miracle !- — 
 Re-strung again, dead Orpheus' living lyre ! — 
 
 Ere Handel, Haydn, Mozart found the Lyre, 
 Music was but a pretty warbling Fay, 
 Prismatic winged, hov'ring o'er virginals. 
 Riding the throbs and plaints of lovesick lutes ; 
 A Fay of songs, motets, and madrigals. 
 Hymning in churchesj — haunting ladies' bowers. 
 In courtly halls guiding the stately dance. 
 Sudden the Fay grew to a Seraph grand. 
 Each lofty pinion, like a towering cloud ; 
 Passion and love themselves, were for her vesture. 
 
iS4 MELCHIOR. [part xiv. 
 
 Religion round her brows a murmurous crown ; 
 And all things sweet and loving to her nestled, 
 Like doves around a great Cathedral Dome. 
 And she hath taken tything of the thunder, 
 And all that's wild and mournful in the wind, 
 And the rejoicing of the Giant Sun 
 And happy pulses of the summer air. 
 
 One of her humble sons was Melchior ; 
 And at the organ spiral-piped he sate 
 And played his Missa — bending to the tide 
 Of changeful theme — his grave blue eyes up- 
 turned. 
 
 THE MISSA. 
 
 '■'■'M^ViZ £lci0on." Ah ! the eternal wail 
 
 For ever rising, labouring up to God. 
 
 How trembled the long chords and humble 
 
 cadence, 
 As if the world were kneeling and deploring. 
 
PART XIV.] MELCHIOR. 155 
 
 Now faltering, grovelling prayer unanswerM, 
 " How long, O Lord, how long, Thy servants 
 
 faint." 
 Now bursting into praise, to weeping praise, 
 The (Blon'a, in a gleaming melody 
 That soars aloft on plumed gratitude. 
 The CrtDO, moving like a seraph's march, 
 Each glorious tramp a track of steadfast lustre. 
 
 Eternal base to lofty gratitude. . 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Hark to the Holy Mother's Lullaby — 
 
 It is the 3incarnatU0, peace to men, 
 
 Peace to the Infant for a little space — 
 
 A small white, infant-dream of distant heaven 
 
 And little grieving cherubs lisping farewell. 
 
 What piercing brilliant note curves o'ef the 
 
 night 
 Of Bethlehem ? it is the Star ! the Star ! ' 
 And what a "gorgeous throng, twinkling with 
 
 gems, 
 And the cymballic clang of golden trappings. 
 
iS6 MELCHIOR. [part xiv. 
 
 And shuffling strides of camels in the sands, 
 The outspread royal hands in deep obeisance 
 Before the lambent babe and marvelling mother. 
 
 Hail, baby King ! our crowns are at thy feet. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Low murmurs of debate rise fitfully — 
 A wise young voice, and old men's bickering 
 
 tones 
 Disputing in the beauteous Temple gate, 
 Rising and falling flowed that wise young 
 
 voice 
 
 And of clear winsomeness as pipe to flocks. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And now the moonlit sea of Galilee, 
 The lingering sweep of the Apostles' oars, 
 And Jesus, dreaming of Gethsemane, 
 The trait'rous kiss — the faithless, fleeing friends. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The livid Golgotha, the awful ciy. 
 Of his last solitary agony. 
 And Mary's moaning. Hark ! the 3Re0UrW;cit, 
 
PART XIV.] MELCHIOR. 157 
 
 The shuddering sounds as the great stone is 
 
 lifted 
 And the grave yawns. Up rose the glorious One, 
 The grave clouts fall away, the heaven opens 
 And the tumultuous fugue of choral triumph 
 With underbeating tones of conquered Death 
 Stretching his bony clattering arms to seize 
 The victim God. 
 
 WLitam Ijcnturi 0(ecuIu Slmzn. 
 
 He rises ; distantly wins on his ear 
 
 The lustrous trouble of a myriad wings. 
 
 And welcoming quires — " He hath come back 
 
 to us 
 For everlasting unto everlasting, 
 »)ailCtU0 =I^O,0anna*" Ve'ry far at first. 
 Now nearer, deeper, sweeter, up the heavens, 
 "I^Ogiantia in eXttW&, He hath risen." 
 Tbe hosts of heaven announce it, circling round. 
 The awful voice of Him no eye hatb seen 
 Speaks now in syllables like worlds. Heaven 
 
 lights with love 
 
158 MELCHIOR. [part xiv. 
 
 Brighter and brighter at each Godhead word, 
 
 And a tremendous silence falls on all. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Earnest and solemn-winged, the T5ziXttiiCtU0 
 Rises and falls, and chimes the 3lsnu0 2Dji, 
 Adoring mournfully, and fainting far 
 Into the 2Dona nol)i0, that now dies. 
 With trembling lapses, into pensive peace. 
 
 He sat entranced, his fingers motionless 
 Upon the keys, as if he heard afar 
 The music still ascending to the sky. 
 
PART XV. 
 
 "Thyself thine only audience, Melchior?" 
 Cried Hirschvogel, applauding with all might. 
 " Where shall I seek another, friend Hirsch- 
 vogel?" 
 " I met a crowd to-day," Hirschvogel cried, 
 " They poured out smiling from the Music Saal, 
 Delighted with some dainty feast of sound. 
 One hummed a fragment lingering in her ears. 
 And tune was living in each lifted heart. 
 The public, sir ! — the public hearken for thee. 
 Oh, be not selfish — ^here be treasure-mines. 
 Oh, lavish them ! — ^the public wait for thee !" 
 Melchior arose, and whimsically smiling — 
 " Once at yon pool I met a gentle thing. 
 It seemed intent to hear my melody ; 
 
i6o MELCHIOR. [part xv. 
 
 I tuned my violin, and threw my soul 
 Into a lay I thought might move the trees 
 To jog their knotted limbs and dance to it. 
 The creature blinked, and gulped its ^ivrinkled 
 
 throat — 
 I took this for emotion, Hirschvogel, 
 And loved its leprous back and speckled belly 
 Because it loved my music. At a transport 
 Of richest chords it oozed up some slime. 
 Turning its muddy flanks on me ; it crawled, 
 And left me with contemptuous buttock-plunga 
 And thus thy public wait and hark for me." 
 Now, Melchior was humble to the core, 
 Blind his own judgment where he loved too 
 
 much ; 
 Stricture just or unjust he bowed before; 
 The dictum of a critic shook his faith ; 
 Where knowledge was, he listened, — nay, he 
 
 learned. — 
 But for that blight of public apathy, 
 The sneer of that bell-wether, idle Fashion, 
 
PART XV.] MELCHIOR. i6i 
 
 He felt a deep revulsion through his being. 
 That the soul-child conceived of fevered years, 
 Born of an agony and a delight, 
 Should be the peg to hang the pertness on, 
 Of shallow, vapouring quidnuncs — echo-tongued. 
 Like chattering birds on an electric wire 
 Streaming with thought, and but a perch to them. 
 This sickened and repelled — this left with him 
 A passive loathing — not akin to hate. 
 
 Hirschvogel shook his head reproachfully. 
 " A toad ? — Nay, friend, 'tis bitterness and pride 
 That shackle genius. Take thou heart again. 
 Each master-mind upon its planet-way 
 Hath its own atmosphere th?it moves with it. 
 Which it controls and fills and feeds with light. 
 Make thine own public ; fill them and illume." 
 
 " If on mid-orbit wrecked," said Melchior, 
 
 " Gone is its fitful light. First give me life. 
 
 Who cares to plant that cannot live to see 
 
 The shadeful wood ? — who quarrieth the marble 
 
 Of princely Castle when his vault doth yawn?" 
 M 
 
1 62 MELCHIOR. [part xv. 
 
 Hirschvogel fixed on him an anxious gaze, 
 " Too sensitive, far too sequestered, thou ! — 
 Mingle in life — ruth for all living things 
 Forbids the chase to thee — ^yet'ride and roam. 
 And give thy mind a colour and a bent 
 From politics ; — from history of to-day 
 Learn to predict the history of to-morrow. 
 Society may weary. Choose companions, 
 ~A woman's friendship hath in it a balm. 
 Such sweet beguiling solace in its ways. 
 Her sympathy, it hath a touch so fine, 
 I do not think there is a taintless thing 
 Matched with a woman's friendship. It hath 
 
 virtue 
 To soothe the ache and fill the weary void. , 
 'Tis in thine hands. Wert thou a profligate 
 And not, as I know well, of .pristine honour, 
 I might not counsel to thy youth and manhood' 
 Such ordeal. Thou art good Knight and true ! 
 And so I bid thee stretch thine hand to her, 
 And clear this heavy air with woman's smiles." 
 
PART XV.] MELCHIOR. 163 
 
 " Thine eye, Hirschvogel — still professional — 
 Spyeth disease in homespijn melancholy." 
 Said Hirschvogel — " The highest gifts of mind 
 Are robed in melancholy. Far from me 
 To fix on them the stigma of disease. 
 But let not auguries of fate and death 
 Infect imagination. There is peril. 
 From the unshadowed Future who can wrest 
 Unborn event ; — until it hap 'tis nought." 
 
 " Call we it a disease?" said Melchior, 
 " Twixt thee and me so be it named and sealed. 
 Long hast thou tended, and with zealous skill, 
 With friendship of the rarest dearest proof 
 I am thy patient, and have studied long 
 Sorne featly speech, some delicate approach, , 
 But still this friendship ever thwarted me. 
 So now, with bungling plainness, I advance. — 
 This aims not to requite thee — Wilt thou 
 
 pardon ?" 
 And here he proffered him a princely fee. — 
 If he had struck Hirschvogel in the face 
 
i64 MELCHIOR. [part xv. 
 
 It would have been a scarcely deeper outrage, 
 The angry scarlet shot across his brow, 
 He laid the purse aside, and tried to speak, 
 And Melchior saw his error. "My old friend !" 
 The voice — the lengthened pressure of the hand 
 Salved the offence, and dimmed Hirschvogel's 
 
 eyes. 
 Quickly appeased, he said in broken voice, 
 " Old age hath but a faggot to throw on 
 The fire of friendship ; — it shall burn for thee ! 
 Old age is wakeful ; — I will watch with thee. 
 And thou hast friends in Wolfgang and in Hans. ' 
 We are three trusty watchmen on the wall. 
 To scare the enemy that walks in darkness. 
 The rainbow of our love archeth above thee !" 
 He flung his tremulous arms above his head 
 In a large sweep — then upon Melchior's hand 
 His old hands closed, full gaze to gaze with 
 
 him. 
 With bantering smile stood Wolifgang at the 
 
 door: 
 
PART XV.] MELCHIOR. 165 
 
 '' For once hath Nestor greater charm than 
 Helen, 
 
 An age-dried hand than velvet-clasping palm. 
 
 What doest thou here when beauty waits with- 
 out?"— 
 
 Then Wolfgang pointed toward the convent 
 walls — 
 
 "And beauty in the guise of melancholy. 
 
 She thinks on thee all day. ' He hath forgotten 
 me.' 
 
 This is her burden. There are signs about her 
 
 Of taking root, and sprouting into leaf 
 
 Upon the bank, and thou wilt find a willow 
 
 A -sighing in the wind — ' He hath forgotten 
 me.'"i 
 
 " Doth she need aught ?" said Melchior. " The 
 nuns 
 
 Are softly skilled to medicine the mind, 
 
 And wean the heart from sorrow." 
 " Not from love. 
 
 A band of dry old maids know not the lore. 
 
J 66 MELCHIOR. [part xv. 
 
 It is not written in their crabbM missals • 
 It lies not down with them on barren pallet, 
 Nor on their pillow sits at matin bell. 
 Well hast thou known the sweetness of applause, 
 What honey there doth hide in princely praise. 
 The inner silent triumpli thou hast owned 
 When Friedmann Bach pronounced thee music- 
 brother. 
 But dost thou know a subtler joy than all ? 
 To hear a woman falter out she loves you : 
 'Tis flattery divine — a dreamy marvel, 
 Rich as the thymy prize to a boy's hand, 
 A wild bee's nest — full of the unbought sweet ! 
 Fine as the spangled rainbow in the bubble 
 To the babe's eye, a floating fairy land. 
 Thou art that man of happy star who found 
 Treasure more exquisite than regal diamond, 
 Which might have set embattled half a world. 
 And thou hast left it in the common fields." 
 Here spoke Hirschvogel, taking part with him : 
 " Legend or picture never fabled beauty 
 
PART XV.] MELCHIOR. 167 
 
 Like her thou wottest of. Through my old heart 
 There is a trouble at the sight of her." 
 " I do remember me," said Melchior, 
 "What witching charm had once a woman's 
 
 face, 
 And in the distance have I greeted beauty, 
 Even as a lover wafts a distant kiss 
 From his glove tip to. her who sits aloft 
 Enchanting the far casement. So with me. 
 But outworn is the spell. Cloys on the palate 
 Are glory — beauty — ^all are stale bygones." 
 Then Wolfgang smiled with friendly playfulness, 
 His voice and gaze were gentler than his wont, 
 " When thou hast met some happy coupled pair 
 Caught in love's shining cobweb, buzzing glad — 
 Deny it not — 'I've seen a jealous shade 
 Pass o'er thy face — 'tis not a week agone. 
 I've seen thine eye fire at the merry horn. 
 And at the .beat of prancing hoofs without." 
 Here spoke Hirschvogel, taking part with him, 
 " For thou dost struggle 'gainst an opiate. 
 
i68 MELCHIOR. [part xv. 
 
 And fight'st its numbing progress step by s^ep, 
 Staring at real objects— -crying still 
 I am awake ? — ^yet stand not up and live. 
 As thou wouldst welcome glad intrusive bird 
 That entered at thy window on a song, 
 So welcome thou this stranger to thy home, 
 With her, thou welcomest the halcyon wings." 
 Slow paced Melchior up and down the room, 
 " She is a bird dropt from a parent nest ; 
 Somewhere are heavy hearts for her to-day, 
 There is some home full of her memory ; 
 A convent shade near Bonn, where her young 
 
 mind 
 Unfurled the sunny sail of maiden thought, 
 Nor dreamt of danger in the voyaging. 
 There may she find a soothing harbourage ; 
 For there hath been a tempest in her life; 
 I ask not — know not — only it is past." 
 
 "Seek not that convent," Wolfgang, shrug- 
 ging, said, 
 " The home paternal hath the same foundations 
 
PART XV.] MELCHIOR. 169 
 
 As wizard's palace. On the hill at Bonn 
 Stands an old windmill — tented camps of toad- 
 stools 
 Spring rankly rounds — these are the fostering 
 
 nuns ; ' , 
 
 For convent, creaks a black and hooded windmill. 
 She said at Cologne was hejr father's home, 
 A certain timbered mansion by a Kirche. 
 There, dwells an undertaker, single, childless. 
 Who with uplifted eyebrows blankly stared, 
 With vacant echo of her name unknown, ' 
 Yet there beneath the shadow of the Kirche 
 He plied his gloomy trade for fifty years. 
 And this a friend at Bpnn sought out for me." . 
 
 Said Melchior, " As soon would I disturb 
 Poor relics 'neath their mould, as drag to light 
 A woman's wretched secret. — Let it sleep." 
 
 " One secret, Melchior, she wears exposed 
 As is that sapphire stone upon thy finger. 
 Love's pink Aurora flitteth on her cheek. 
 Love standeth at the portal of her eyes. 
 
I70 MELCHIOR. [part xv. 
 
 And gossips of its light and of its tears. 
 It rides the trembling cadence of her voice. 
 Is, there no magnet in her lovehness, 
 Saintly disturbances around to rule, 
 And set the needle of thine heart to her?" 
 
 " Yes, she is fair," said Melchior, " 'tis a face 
 Might draw one home betimes of an evening, 
 Or make an idle youth fall melancholy. 
 And lie i' the wind for ever thinking of it. 
 But what am I ? A hasty traveller. 
 Posting between the present and the future, 
 That baits awhile in this dull fleshly tavern, 
 And then must snatch adieus and hence away. 
 Friend, thou dost fable, yet I go to her. 
 When the heart festers with the care it knows, . 
 A sympathy unprying, gently strong, 
 May drop like oil and wine into the wound, 
 And wile away the pain. I'll go to her." 
 Then met the eyes of these conspiring friends, 
 One half in mischief, and one all in love. 
 Intent as children on a coming tale. 
 
PART XVI. 
 
 Now from the Convent rung the Angelus. 
 The bat flits soundless by, and haunts the twi- 
 light : 
 The tree and flower are drinking deep of dew. 
 At the third clangour of the Angelus, 
 The lady lifts her head as if the peal 
 Had waked a statue to a start of life. 
 " Another day. — I lose the heavy score ; 
 All seems one long blank day of dwindling hope. 
 Yonder is he ; if I could drag my steps 
 All humbly to his door, and speak my thanks, 
 It would assuage this longing — Ah, I fear ; 
 For I have seen his boat pass and repass, 
 And never hath his eyes turned hitherward. 
 Ye trees that see him daily — happy trees 
 
172 MELCHIOR. [part xvi. 
 
 Around his home, good-night, again good-riight ! 
 Your leaves shall sear and scatter ere he come." 
 
 A footfall rustled in the withered fern. 
 She looked with an instinctive start of hope. 
 'Twas he at last — the master of her thought. 
 
 Then broken was the seal upon the tomb 
 Of gratitude where it had coffined lain. 
 Coffined, but deadralive. It rose to life, 
 It broke from her, but, in a feverish haste, 
 As if the chance might fleet and he might 
 
 vanish. 
 Her shy heart recklessly drove forth her speech. 
 And 'in upbraiding came the unwitting words. 
 " Is it \vith thee so vain and trite a thing 
 To give back life to a despairing wretch ; 
 Or am I such an outcast in thy thought. 
 My life counts nothing in thy daily record. 
 If I had saved a linnet from the hawk 
 I must remember. — Next day must I peer 
 Amongst the leaves, and wonder if its eye 
 Looked down on its preserver gratefully ; 
 
PART XVI.] MELCHIOR. ' 173 
 
 Or fondly fancy that I could distinguish 
 Its thankful song from every common note." 
 
 Then Melchior, smiling, kindly took her hand : 
 "When last we met, thy gaze clove to my. face 
 As scarfed babe's upon a paper goblin 
 Pinned to, its curtain — this my only welcome." 
 
 Her gaze sunk down — the quick words fell 
 away 
 To drooping speech. She told how she awoke 
 At midnight ; all seemed lone ; the whited room 
 Was as a vault where she lay shrouded-dead, 
 A funeral lamp dull-blinking by her side. 
 Then she perceived the ministering niins. 
 As drownfed face in yonder pool might glimmer 
 To one who peered — her memory was dim. 
 But then arose within, a smothered rancour — 
 As vaguely she recalled a bitter past — 
 Against these strangers whose unbidden care 
 Had, as a blessing, given her back her bane. 
 
 But when she saw him enter — heard his voice, 
 All the kind forethought — manly gentleness, 
 
174 MELCHIOR. [part xvi. 
 
 The frozen heart was thawed — Life smiled again 
 
 With gratitude brimful. Then seemed it well 
 
 That at his hands she took again her life, 
 
 For she could thank him, do him humble service. 
 
 Or wish it, yearn it, pray for it alway ; 
 
 So famished was her heart for one kind word ; 
 
 And his came stintless — meaning more than 
 
 sound. 
 And so she stared and choked — the heart too 
 
 full; 
 She could not even utter beggar's thanks ; 
 A word had loosed the thronging of her sobs. 
 He took her hand — " Autumn is lusty still. 
 The nightshade in the wood hath yet to fall 
 Into its splendour, and the haw is green. 
 I bid thee, lady — come and grace my home ; 
 Come in all innocence — pure as thou art ; 
 Leave me at eve still in all innocence. 
 As if the Virgin-mother looked on us. 
 And her God -babe held forth His beck'ning 
 
 hand. 
 
PART XVI.] MELCHIOR. 175 
 
 But when November bleakens on the plains, 
 
 Those living leaves be laid in skeletons, 
 
 And all that now is green be sear and dead. 
 
 Then shall my place on earth no more be found. 
 
 In this rank garden may'st thy vigil be 
 
 To silver age — Thou shalt not hear my treadi" 
 
 A little mist of. dole beset her eyes : 
 
 Then she bethought her of his phantasies. 
 
 " These flowers," he said, " may almost outlive 
 
 me." 
 " Death ! " murmured she — " It is thy greenest 
 
 age. 
 For many a year death shall not menace thee." 
 
 " Call it not menace, lady ; is it death 
 When wakes from his sick sleep the dormant 
 
 lizard 
 To lightning life — a carven emerald ? 
 Lady, -what thou call'st farewells, they are wel- 
 comes. 
 The girl who died last night, whose waxen beauty 
 Made the air sad, to me had beck'ning life. 
 
176 MELCHIOR. [part xvi. 
 
 In crowds, I've seen the childless mother pass 
 Stooping in grief and weeds — but to my eye 
 A phantom babe went with her, in her hand 
 Its little clasp, like a pale yellow rose. 
 Beside the stricken man who looked around, 
 Half wild with loneliness, I've seen the form 
 Of his young wife flit by him earnestly 
 Unspoken solace on her throbbing lip." 
 
 There came a summons from the convent 
 portal — ' 
 
 " Daughter, the Angelus hath rung — retire." 
 He smiled a farewell — took her hand — was gone. 
 
PART XVII. 
 
 And he hath bidden h'er to come at morn ! 
 Why now the morn is hailing her without, 
 Its shining arms upralised, two glorious beams 
 Above its cloudy robe, thrown up the sky. 
 With " Welcome, welcome ! he hath bidden 
 
 thee !" 
 She is gone forth to enter yonder home 
 Where he abides — truth like delicious false- 
 hood ! 
 And now an epicure in this delight. 
 As if by contrast to give joy a foil — 
 She sought the garden still called Lady's-field, 
 And sate again to simulate past care. 
 She, now his guest, and with a happy task 
 
 Sate on the sorrow-mound against the rOses, 
 
 N 
 
178 MELCHIOR. [part xvii. 
 
 That she might smiling rise, and cry, "Glad 
 
 change !" 
 In those unhappy days, now gladly changed, 
 Here watched she many things, yet saw them 
 
 not. 
 Save as sad commentary on her longings, 
 The rook that passed and dwindled to a dot. 
 Then vanished quite, was as her hope to her. 
 Which did approach, and passed, then died away. 
 The leaf that fell with whispered obsequies 
 ,From yonder linden, dropping at her feet, 
 Seemed a dead missive of forgetfulness 
 From him to her, without one withered word. 
 The pigeons idly wheeling — grey, white, black, 
 She counted painfully, and still again 
 They seemed the days that she had waited there. 
 But now she is his guest, his bidden guest. 
 And all these things have turned to happy 
 
 omens : i 
 
 " I will pay back my debt of life to him ; 
 I will apprentice me to minister 
 
PART XVII.] MELCHIOR. 179 
 
 To his afflicted life, with loving service !" 
 She rose in placid triumph ; hied she swift 
 Along the river bank ; slackened her step 
 As she approached the Geister-seer's home, 
 And at the portal doubtful was her knock. 
 Burly Dutch John received her with a smile, 
 And waved to her to enter, heartily. 
 " Your master is at home ?" her faltering 
 
 question ; 
 Dutch John he nodded, smiled, and waved his 
 
 hand. 
 She entered shyly, looked around with awe, 
 And in her eyes there lurked a meek petition : 
 " What shall I do ? what shall I say to please ? 
 Or shall I Wait and watch with wakeful caution 
 And sensitive espial till all come 
 Into my heart and wisely to my lips ? — 
 A little, wait, I shall be apt to learn." 
 So said, or seemed to say, her quick, shy glance. 
 At either corner of her mouth the bow 
 Dipped with a tender shade of pensiveness : 
 
i8o MELCHIOR. [part xvii. 
 
 Her brow had yet the dinted memory 
 Of pain just flown — her smile was tremulous. 
 " I would he were not here " her beating heart 
 Was murmuring, as with a faltering step 
 Approached she to his door and passed within. 
 A letter only gave her winter welcome, 
 Her name on it (it looked ho chill and mute, 
 Like a rebuke, she feared to open it). 
 Which told her not till eve would he return, 
 But there were books and prints to speed the 
 
 time ; 
 She drooped, her heart said, "Would that he 
 
 were here !" 
 Dutch John, a broad-jowled, burly Flemish man 
 Of ponderous strength, and simple, homely 
 
 soul. 
 Who loved deep draughts, cared not a whit for 
 
 ghosts. 
 And looked on Beauty, Melody, and Art, 
 ^ E'en as a Flemish bull might view a sunset ; 
 This yokel lit the stove and rubbed the brasses 
 
PART XVII.] MELCHIOR. i8i 
 
 / 
 Of lamp, or lyre-shaped stands, or waxed the 
 
 parquet 
 With bending slide, as skated he in Holland. 
 John had a giant quality of silence : 
 He entered with his leather and his chalk, 
 And rubbed the brasses with a mute conjtent. 
 Blanca arose, and standing by him watched 
 
 him : 
 " Your master's daily wont is at the Castle ? . 
 The sisters tell of stately organ there." 
 Dutch John . he nodded, smiled, and rubbed 
 
 away. 
 "Your master aileth not, though he- be pale ; 
 He bears himself a strong and goodly man." 
 Dutch John he nodded, smiled, and rubbed 
 
 away. 
 " And is the Princess young and fair, good John? 
 And bides, she at the Castle all the year?" 
 Dutch, John he nodded, smiled, and rubbed away. 
 "Thou dost not fear these sprites, good John ?" 
 
 she saith. ' 
 
i82 MELCHIOR. [part xvii. 
 
 " Come they by daylight, or by dusk, or night ? 
 And hath he friends his troubles to partake. 
 And fill the rooms with jocund living voice ? 
 Thou dost not deem that he will die so timeless ! 
 Muses he much upon it, when alone, John ?" 
 Dutch John he nodded, smiled, and rubbed away. 
 In sooth no word he spoke but rank low Dutch : 
 His nods and smiles w^ere current anywhere. 
 She glanced around. Here were portfolios 
 Lent by the Prince, his name and arms on them ; 
 Prints of the younger Holbein and his school. 
 And here were books; — some rare — in monkish, 
 
 Latin. 
 The dulcimer lay in the embrasure 
 Of window diapered with light, she touched 
 The ringing glass, it sounded sweet to her 
 As when the elfins ring their little peals 
 From heather bells. In through the portal 
 
 thronged 
 The passion flowers, pale as dying Christ, 
 At every breeze, and then thronged out again.; 
 
PARTXvn.] MELCHIOR. 183 
 
 And perfumes of sweet-briar, gay sweet-pea ; 
 
 And Blanca, tempted by their breath, went forth. 
 
 Now was that garden the abode of beauty ; 
 
 It owned her presence ; every blossom there 
 
 Was dowered with a tenfold sweetness straight ; 
 
 The violet more royally was purpled. 
 
 The lilies beamed with a more queenly sheen, . 
 
 The gramarye of beauty is abroad. 
 
 Her step, lithe grace ; her hair a mist of gold 
 
 Encoiffed beneath the frills of snowy lawn ; 
 
 And the green kirtle— 'twas a soft gold green — 
 
 Was crossed by creamy petals of the lilies. 
 
 And arabesqued by shadows from their leaves. 
 
 Her face like one of Botticelli's angels, 
 
 And on its pallor was some secret writ ; 
 
 A grief — a melancholy mystery. 
 
 And yet so young that head, there should the 
 
 wreath 
 Of girlish hope abud with light be set. 
 She stood before the cenotaph, and gazed 
 Upon its symbols and Greek characters ; 
 
1 84 MELCHlbR. [part xvii. 
 
 Her shadow fell across confronting her. 
 Aye ! as thou standest in thy beauty there, 
 Even like that shadow is thy ghostly rival, 
 With such an airy challenge meets she thee ! , 
 His Saint Cecilia— wilt thou conquer, Blanca? 
 
PART XVIII. 
 
 Just at the hour when comes a kindling fringe 
 On the low cloud, the Geister-seer floated 
 Adown the yellow reaches of the Rhine, 
 Stream borne ; behind the sun - gilt castle 
 
 towered, 
 And in blue shadow slept the Niederburg. 
 Upon the radiant grass Hirschvogel stood, 
 That sloping met the water, and he waved 
 A far salute, but Melchior noted not. 
 He steered him for the graceful steeple white. 
 Rough with its dainty crockets — his Saint's 
 
 church. 
 He had endowed it with gold chalices, 
 A tabernacle lamp of chasM silver, 
 Rich thuribles, and candlesticks of gold. 
 
i86 MELCHIOR. [part xviii. 
 
 And relics of the Saint within the altar. 
 There, where the white reflection lay, he landed, 
 And to the Chapel wended — he was wont 
 To meditate and worship here alone — 
 And entered, pushing past the' heavy curtain. 
 Pausing, he crossed liimself with reverence. 
 Twelve pillars of red Strasburg marble ranged 
 Beneath the vaulted roof of sombre gold. 
 Six slender Gothic windows pierced the walls ; 
 On mellow glass St. Cecile's history glowed ; 
 And to the marble aisle these storied windows, 
 Told all the tales again in softened light. 
 Her altar and her niche stand by the porch, 
 With candles ever burning, and a lamp, 
 Shaped like a ruby heart, glowed, hovering 
 With blood-red radiance o'er the marble saint, 
 Upon her upturned face with its faint smile, 
 On the broad stola, and the rounded wrist. 
 And the half-clasping hand that held the branch. 
 His votive candle reverently lit. 
 He gazed a space, then up to the high altar, 
 
PARTXvm.] MELCHIOR. 187 
 
 And lowly he adored the Crucified. 
 
 The organ pipes blazed suddenly in glory — 
 
 A travelling sunbeam smote them all athwart 
 
 With splendour ; Melchior sate him in the beam, 
 
 Touching the keys to Saint Cecilia's hymn. 
 
 It seemeid to him there was young choiring, 
 
 Which followed every chord — a ppisirig choir ; 
 
 Sweet shrilly chinaes of children all around, 
 
 Rising at times to infant ecsta^, 
 
 Then- warbling with young treble tenderly, 
 
 And, when he ceased, a rushing soft of wings. 
 
 Again he stood before his marble saint. 
 He thought he saw a quivering of the lip 
 Madly conceived her face would bend to him, 
 A wild exalted gaze usurped his eyes. 
 He knelt and prayed, his whispers rose and 
 
 fell 
 Distractedly, as if his spirit wrestled 
 In pleadings with some spirit that took wing. 
 And, in the exaltation of that prayer. 
 The tears came up. But, faintly smiling ever. 
 
i88 MELCHtOR. [part xviii. 
 
 The Saint, stained as with blood, was marble 
 
 deaf. 
 Deeply he mused, as slowly pacing home. 
 And in his soul the smiling Saint was shrined. 
 And her young choirs — her faint and stony 
 
 smile. 
 He raised his eyes as he approached his portal. 
 And there, beneath the passion flowers, stood 
 The woman who had dropt into his life. 
 A shock of pleasure passed through every nerve. 
 As you might strike a harp through all its strings. 
 What denizen had chanced into his home 
 Of such a piteous beauty standing there, 
 And all the magic of her eyes on him. 
 Was she the same he saw but yestereen ? 
 Or did the setting of his home enhance 
 The beaming of this pearl to startle him ? 
 'Twas but a moment and the calmness came ; 
 This ambuscade of sudden loveliness 
 Had struck him dumb. Now, with a gentle 
 
 welcome. 
 
PART XVIII.] MELCHIOR. 189 
 
 He led her in and smiling questioned her 
 How she had fared alone. Dutch John had 
 
 served her 
 On silver and on crystal, like a queen ; 
 And she had peeped in books of black-letter 
 Half timidly, as children peep through chinks 
 Of ruined tombs, then run away in fear. 
 And she had wandered through the garden gay, 
 And saw a monument — had it a tenant ? 
 If she had never wakened from her swoon. 
 How strange and sweet had she been buried, 
 
 there. 
 And so she talked and tremulously smiled — 
 'Twas not akin to that faint stony smile. — 
 There fell on her a nervous drag ori words. 
 Such as doth come in music, and her hand. 
 With little gesture of impatience, helped 
 To eke her meaning out — rarely it came. 
 Soon more at ease, her low voice questioned 
 
 him 
 In smoother cadence, and in German pure. 
 
I90 MELCHIOR. [part xyiii. 
 
 Opening the sweet well-tempered clavichord, 
 With little beckon shyly she petitioned 
 For melody, and gravely bent to listen, 
 She watched him 'neath her brows with covert 
 
 vigil. 
 A twilight spirit-sheen was on his form. 
 On pallid brow and cheek weirdly it fell, 
 On the long hands that speeded o'er the keys. 
 On thick dark hair queue -bound, on mellow 
 
 lace, 
 O'er neck and breast, and on the ruffled wrist ; 
 He might have been the ghost of some dead 
 
 , master 
 Whose hands had long forgot their cunning, ■ 
 
 risen 
 Inspired and spectral in that eirie light. 
 Rich tinklings like the sound of many harps. 
 That rung and rung, and gathered golden might. 
 Or trickled mellowly, or gladly tripped ; 
 And then again rich tinklings like the harps 
 Which rung and rung in golden diapason. 
 
PART XVIII.] MELCHIOR. 191 
 
 The music ceased, as if a songster died 
 Amid a chord. He rose and stood' intent, 
 One hand upraised — -" Dost thou hear aught ?" 
 
 said Blanca, 
 " Fear nothing, but be still," and with his hand 
 He seemed to time, as with the waving wand 
 He might conduct a spectral orchestra ; 
 " Fear nothing, but speak not." Blanca arose. 
 And to the d.oor o'erhung with passion flowers. 
 Softly she went, the Geister-seer followed. 
 And took her wrist, and whispered, " Make thou 
 
 way, 
 They will pass here, a reverend company." 
 Aside he drew her, and she stood with him — 
 She gazed on vacancy, his hand on hers. 
 " Now they pass out in melancholy file. 
 Faithful and steadfast were they to the end ; 
 The blood upon their breasts doth witness, it, 
 Canst thou not see their faces raptured-white, 
 And all, the rings of fire ? Hush, watch them 
 
 still. 
 
192 MELCHIOR. [part xviii. 
 
 See how they pluck the lilies !" Blanca .loosed 
 His hand from hers, and went forth in the 
 
 dusk ; 
 He saw her figure passing darkly through them, 
 As you have seen a form in white sea-fog. 
 And she came smiling back- — " There is nothing 
 
 there." 
 " Hark to the requiescat ! hark ! Amen ! 
 Now see'st thou not yon moony drifts of light ?" 
 
 " I see the glimmer of the lily ranks, 
 I see the bkld old elder, bending down 
 To bathe its back in starlight : muffled murmurs 
 Are rising from the Rhine — there's nothing 
 
 more." 
 Then he was silent, and it seemed to Blanca 
 He watched a file of phantoms, who repassed 
 Across the chamber, and were slowly Ipst. 
 " Dost thou not tremble, Blanca ?" On his 
 
 hand 
 She laid her soft cold palm, '' I tremble not, 
 I fear no dreams — would I could waken thee." 
 
PART XVIII.] me;lchior. 193 
 
 From silver box upon the stove, she drew 
 The tinder, and she struck a cheerful spark. 
 She lit the lamps to chase the haunting gloom. 
 With lithesome movement, busy-idle hand. 
 She moved about, and made a show of bustle. 
 Changed here a book, shifted some ornaipent : 
 A woman's step and hand did wake to marvel 
 The mystery and loneness of the place. 
 When all began to pulse with light and life, 
 She donned her hood, and bade a shy good- 
 night. 
 But no — he went even to the postern gate 
 Beneath the starry skies, while from the east 
 Arose the timid herald of the moon, 
 A hazy fount, which yet shall grow to light — 
 Pale thread of fire, wan brow, and Titan orb. 
 
 O 
 
PART XIX. 
 
 Now day by day she went at matin prime, 
 At evfening she returned to convent cell ; 
 The sister Ursula suspicious grew, 
 And-'-with pinched lips and a rebuking eye — 
 "£)alighter, where goest thou so oft alone?" 
 " Oh a good errand. Mother," Blanca smiled. 
 Arid passM out. She met the gentle priest. 
 Who stopped her with a grave and kind salute ; 
 " Daughter, where , goest thou from day to 
 day?" 
 " On a good errand. Father," Blanca smiled.. 
 ■'A tempting one ; how knowest thou 'tis good? 
 The subtlestbaits of Satan — such good errands-r^ 
 He forges on them stamp of heavenly mint. 
 And feeble women dub themselves apostles, 
 
PART XIX.] MELCHIOR. i95 
 
 To find themselves rash fools — poor penitents." 
 She mutely shook her head, and hurried on.' 
 
 When in her whitened cell abed she lay, 
 One hand beneath her icheek, the other nestling 
 In her young bosom, then came reveries ; 
 Then would she summon up a memory 
 Of something pleasant she had stored away. 
 To feast upon in secret — for her mind 
 Was now a treasure-casket for his words, 
 His smiles, his gentle acts, his lingering gazes ; 
 How, on a day, when in a self-distrust. 
 Thinking her company might pall, she went 
 And closed the door, he called her back again, 
 With feigned chiding for deserting him. 
 " Thou steal'st the' music from my clavichord 
 With thy departure. Art thou weary of me?" 
 He played to her a motet he had scored. 
 Turning his eyes on her at every close. 
 This pleasant thought she fed on, like a bee 
 Upon a honied flower, returning ever : 
 Bright memories, which had o'ergrown her past 
 
196 MELCHIOR. [part xix. 
 
 As verdure hides a grave — new, busy life. 
 The Geister-seer watched his stranger guest 
 To know her. Who is this bright one he founid? 
 It was as he had found in chancing wander 
 A plant unknown, uncared, tossed by the way, 
 And he had set it in a kindly soil, 
 And fondly watched each morn what bloom, 
 
 would show ; 
 Would it put forth in simple' milk-white bells ? 
 Or into vermeil glow of flaunting pride ? 
 Or venomed yellow of the henbane flower ? 
 He watched his flower, to see the unguessed 
 
 bloom. 
 Yet with reserve, distrustful of the spell 
 Which had begun to form and charm the air. 
 As frost doth make the robin bold, his coldness 
 Made Blanca reckless-sweet. She taunted him 
 With playful and half-tentative approach ; 
 "Why, what a thrift to-day, is in thy smiles. 
 Thy smiles are like gold pieces aimed to beggars. 
 All in mistake, and half snatched back again." 
 
PART XIX.] MELCHIOR. 197 
 
 But when he named her, and would honour her, 
 Her nerve was fluttered — as the soldier stumbles 
 Advancing to his prince with beating heart 
 Ere on his breast the medal should be clasped. 
 And still she dared a pretty playfulness 
 That fitted well her youth and native humour, 
 That graced the commonplace with transient 
 
 light, 
 And lent dull things a tricksome pleasantry. 
 Even as a mirror makes the sunshine dance 
 Upon the dull grey wall — bright come, bright 
 
 gone. 
 And when she saw him start, as if one called. 
 Or noted that his ga^e was fixed on air, 
 'Twas then she ministered with bonny cheer. 
 To lay the fiend by magic of a laugh. 
 See how the dog doth watch its master's temper. 
 To check the loving antic, so her eye 
 With winsome awe did measure Melchior's 
 
 mood. 
 As passing breeze on the ^olian chords, 
 
198 MELCHIOR. [part xix. 
 
 A passing interest, as it swept her mind, 
 
 Brought forth a new wild tone ; 
 
 And he would fix a doubting look on her, 
 
 A wonderment would take him if 'twere chance. 
 
 Or outcome of a rare and gifted spirit, 
 
 That grace of sentiment, that wise quaint thought. 
 
 " How IS it with thee, Blanca?" Melchior said, 
 
 Said she, " Even as the bird a-winging south 
 
 Beneath the tropic skies doth daily change 
 
 Its moulted dulness into plumes of gbld, 
 
 So hath my mind within, to happiness." 
 
 She snatched a rose, touched with the canker 
 
 blight : 
 " That is what I was once," — she plucked away 
 The tainted leaves, till not one stain remained— r- 
 " And that is what thine hand hath done for 
 
 me. 
 Her lip pursed like a child about to cry ; 
 In pang of gratitude she turned away. 
 And soon the tendrilled sympathy had grown 
 Which gifted her to feel what he would say. 
 
PART XIX.] MELCHIOR. 199 
 
 And serve him ere he spoke. Love grew pro- 
 phetic. 
 She lived not in herself, she lived in him ; 
 If her brow ached to racking, not a sigh ; 
 But if she saw in distance touch of pain 
 To him, with a dissembling loving skill. 
 She' glozed the ill away — an untaught art — 
 Deceit more dear, more noble than the truth. 
 Not for your very heart could you fepel 
 The plaintive grace of her advance to you. 
 Not for your life could you subdue regret 
 If you had wounded her. The pity came, 
 When on her brow, that little trouble-dint. 
 Or the mouth drooped in disappointedness. 
 Full as the cloud with water, as the myrrh 
 Flows from the wounded bark of the sarak, 
 So full was she of womanly compassion. 
 She loved dumb things ; the beetle on the walk 
 On sharded back, with slowly writhing legs. 
 She paused to turn, and- place it out of harm. 
 The shy pert little birds she won to her ; 
 
2Q0 MELCHIOR. [part xix. 
 
 And to the singing birds she cried " Sing on !" 
 Enchanted with their music, " Oh, sing on ! " 
 And children passing by the garden door 
 Oft saw a vision clad in golden green, 
 One who had lain in wait to do them pleasure, 
 With flower or fruit, kind question or caress. 
 'Twas like the milk in the young mother's 
 
 breast — 
 Whose sucking babe is dead — that paineth her, 
 That womanly compassion infinite. 
 
PART XX. 
 
 Though one of nature's stainless gentlemen, 
 Hans, as a trader ranked, nor wore a sword, 
 But he was human. Just resentment rankled : 
 The silversmiths took their designs from 
 
 Wolfgang 
 Of boars and goblins, satyrs. Dryads nude. 
 Most cunning work, but of a savage humour. 
 In Hans' native town, a youthful sculptor. 
 And of the painter's kin, was winning way , 
 By his designs, fraught with a graceful fancy. 
 Brooches and baubles, tankards, horns, and 
 
 cups 
 Were prankt with new conceits and dainty 
 
 mouldings ; 
 An armed archangel blessed the tankard's lid, 
 
202 MELCHIOR. [PART XX. 
 
 Where once the dragon gaped" or demon 
 
 grinned. 
 Angelic maidens,, winged back to back, 
 Upbore the salver or the pedestal ; 
 Where once an owl or toad enclosed the salt, 
 In head of saint or in the back of dove 
 Lurked the white crystal, as if sanctified ; 
 And cherubs climbed the bowls with callow 
 
 wings. 
 ' Come to our town," wrote Hans, " bring thy 
 
 designs. 
 We have a plethora of horrors here. 
 Legions of devils plague our silversmiths ; 
 The moment of reaction waits thy coming. 
 Bring thou thy heavenly hosts. Come and 
 
 redeem us." 
 For nudities of satyrs, goblins, devils. 
 For wild cats, snakes and dragons, owls and bats. 
 Came angel throngs in seemly drape and fillet. 
 And fickle fashion gazed and was enamoured, 
 Took in her empty head a pious craze. 
 
PART XX.] MELCHIOR. 203 
 
 And so the angels drove the devils out. 
 The orders from the country and the town 
 Flowed briskly toward the lucky smiths of Ort ; 
 Wolfgang's designs grew bygone, out of date, 
 And on the shoals of change, thriftless he lay, 
 He was aghast with gall, despair, and wrath. 
 Then Hans repented. Like the rash magician 
 He could not lay the mischief he had conjured, 
 And better thrust his arm into the den 
 Of famished tiger, than to bring his pity 
 To Wolfgang's door. Poor Hans' rancour died. 
 Forethoughted, true in trouble, without show, 
 Studiously generous, of ambushed kindness. 
 Was Melchior. Ill-judging oftentimes. 
 Of nature simple, and most credulous. 
 If he were mad, his madness gave a colour 
 And chivalry to native princeliness. 
 In Wolfgang's studio a neglected work 
 Lay hidden, and unsold, defaced with dust 
 Which fell like sullied snow, even from its birth; 
 Of morbid genius full, and grimly sad. 
 
204 MELCHIOR. [part xx. 
 
 A resurrection group in Strasburg marble, 
 Two lovers risen from one grave, but parted ; 
 The crouching youth caught in the scaly griffes 
 Of hideous devil headed like a gargoyle ; 
 The maid, clasped by an angel heavenward 
 
 bound — 
 She, with wild arms outstretching to her lover, 
 Rejecting her salvation utterly. 
 Would cleave to him, enamoured of his torment. 
 This work was bought by Melchior open-handed 
 Lavish beyond the modest first demand. 
 In the great castle hall, a marble surbase — 
 Carved with a low relief but incomplete, 
 Left by the chisel of a nameless sculptor 
 Of mediaeval date — adorned the walls, 
 In four long friezes. To the absent Prince, 
 Wrote Melchior, to plead the cause of Wolfgang. 
 " His was the hand to catch the olden style 
 In its archaic quaintness, rich detail. 
 And seize the sequel of a dead man's thought." 
 To Wolfgang's chisel fell the genial task. 
 
PART XXI. 
 
 Gold rested not for long in Wolfgang's purse, 
 'Twas winged, and fugitive ; rarely it came ; 
 And tarried a brief while ; it glittered forth 
 On lavish whim, nor left regret behind. 
 Rich flowed to him the stream of Melchior's 
 
 bounty, 
 And lined the pockets of a prodigal 
 With golden pieces, ready to take wing. 
 A feast he ordered at the Wein Stube, 
 And there were fish, and game, and choicest cates, 
 And venison, hot-house fruits, old Rhenish wines, 
 With all the burnished plate the host could range 
 On the long oaken table. At the head. 
 In carven chair of state, sat Wolfgang, proudly ; 
 Upon his breast a military medal 
 
2o6 ' MELCHIOR. [part xxi. 
 
 He wore — for in his youth he saw the wars, 
 And won it by a deed of reckless valour. 
 A queue confined his black rebellious hair, 
 New cuffs of lace reached to his nut-brown 
 
 knuckles, 
 A shapely coat of citron-coloured cloth, 
 Gave him a build. His fierce and fleshless face 
 Of fallen-angel beauty, flushed with wine. 
 His voice was harsh, and dominant — distress 
 To quiet souls, and his wild laugh — a panic. 
 Never pretentious on a theme unknown. 
 For there he'd stoop to question curiously, 
 With something of an humble dignity, — 
 But where he knew, parading arrogance 
 Came — cold and loud — its foot on every neck, 
 Now bold in wanton insolence of wine. 
 None were invited who excelled in talk ; 
 A rich retired trader, a dull lawyer, 
 Two silversmiths, and their fat Fraus were 
 
 bidden ; 
 Two maiden sisters, comely, not too prim. 
 
PART XXI.] MELCHIOR. 207 
 
 Who flowed with a diluted trickling gossip ; 
 Clara, the wife of Hans — a tropic bird, 
 In vivid hues, and trinkets — rouged and patched ; 
 She sat at Wolfgang's side fair and defiant. 
 Another guest was there — an idle youth, 
 A brainless coxcomb, feebly profligate. 
 Effeminate, affected, finical. 
 Pretty and slight. The brilliant Amazon — 
 His inverse at all points— had dazzled him 
 Even to his small wit's end-i — he followed her ; 
 Awaited a whole evening for her vision. 
 And posed before her windows patiently, 
 Fishing for a stray glance, like angler with his 
 
 float. 
 In mockery his comrades called him Stultzer.^ 
 Now Wolfgang, bent on mischief, and on 
 
 vengeance. 
 Hath placed her votary by his gaudy goddess, 
 And laid a snare for gentle Hans' peace. 
 No hospitality was in this feast ; 
 ^ Dandy. 
 
2o8 MELCHIOR. [part xxi. 
 
 Self-glory, vanity, unmuzzled mirth 
 
 His real motives. He despised his guests, 
 
 But loved to bait them, in their mouths his 
 
 meat,' — 
 Now, by tart logic, like a thrusting foil ; 
 Then, by sardonic courtesy o'erdone ; 
 Anon, by fancies, playful, and bizarre 
 He could amuse with intermittent light. 
 But there was ever thunder in the air. 
 Clara was seated on her host's right hand, 
 And, with a sly derisive look, he watched her, 
 And, with defiant eye, she countered it. 
 Clara ne'er lost an opportunity : 
 Now side by side with Wolfgang, and on terms 
 Of superficial courtesy, she lunged. 
 And, in a lowered voice his memory chid, 
 For a forgotten debt long due to Hans. 
 "And why?" said Wolfgang, "comes he not 
 
 himself? 
 First pay I him I hate — Is he afraid ? 
 Why does the varlet hide behind his wife?" 
 
PART XXI.] MELCHIOR. 209 
 
 Clara, of men held lowest estimate, 
 And most irreverently aired her scorn. 
 Whilst Wolfgang slightingly defined her sex 
 Mere garniture, and condiment to life. 
 " If there be any wincing awkward mission," 
 Clara replied, " a task that lifts the gorge ; ~ 
 If he must borrow from a friend outworn 
 By many loans — collect a doubtful debt ; 
 Awake the ruth within the stony heart 
 ' Of landlord, in whose frown is swift distraint, 
 Your craven husband always sends his wife." 
 Then Wolfgang laid the thalers by her glass, 
 And fell to raillery — " Hast thou not a word 
 For this young cavalier, who droops beside thee? 
 He is a pretty lad, will fetch and carry, 
 A page to thee he'd don a livery. 
 No other eyes for him shine anywhere 
 . Save thine — nor anywhere, a queenly port — 
 No smiles, no frowns, no rage, no love, save thitie. 
 To see, thy feather nodding down a street. 
 Gives contemplation for an afternoon ; 
 
2IO MELCHIOR. [part XXI. 
 
 Thine hand, a moment glimpsing at the case- 
 ment, 
 Feeds fancy for a week — take pity on him. 
 He'll serenade thee on mild mandolin. 
 And make thee presents — silver brooch, gold 
 
 earring. 
 Be thou his patroness, train him to wrist. 
 Now let us tease old Hans, jaundice his sleek 
 Pink face with jealousy — this innocent 
 Will pay thee visits, be thy daily escort, 
 And set a scorpion in old Hans' heart." 
 The youthful Stultzer smiled a foolish smile. 
 She turned her black eyes on the innocent. 
 With pity, as upon a callow wren. 
 " Herr Wolfgang Hofif, a bad child's guide art 
 
 thou." 
 " Haply," said Wolfgang, " Hans might take it 
 
 kindly, 
 And hand thee over all too willingly." 
 
 "Why dost thou hate my husband, hath he 
 wronged thee 
 
PART XXL] MELCHIOR. 211 
 
 Aiding his fellow-countryman, whose hand 
 , Was never raised against him?" 
 
 . " Aye, I hate him," 
 Hissed Wolfgang, " a maligning knave is he, 
 A robber of men's bread, a henpecked fool, 
 Himself fat with prosperity ; I hate him ! " 
 
 " Hans is no knaye, no honester, or lealer 
 In all the town — the students, in his boyhood, 
 •Christened him honest Hans." 
 
 " Aye, once 'twas so ; 
 For the diploma of a thorough knave, 
 Once, chilfl, he must have been an honest man. 
 Else how the guile to cheat an honest man ?" 
 " And what art thou ? — a loud unmannered 
 
 tyrant," 
 She said, a flush of anger 'neath her rouge, 
 " A scamping dog that loves to worry shfeep — 
 Thou, a disreputable ageing sinner. 
 As monkey mischievous, as woman vain — 
 Der Teufel ! now an ancient of twoscore. 
 In thy conceit, playing, forsooth, the lover 
 
212 , MELCHIOR. [part XXI. 
 
 To yonder lady, guest of Herr von Stern, 
 And then a coward, hint away her fame. 
 I say, my Hans is gold, and thou art mud !" 
 Wolfgang laughed loud, but still he liked it not, 
 For Clara's tongue with artless skill could flay ; 
 She knew the nerve. She spoke with undertone. 
 And suffered not her anger to derange 
 Her relish, and unruffled appetite. 
 " Well said and loyally, good Frau, 'tis pity ' 
 He is not here; and so thou, lovest Hans?" 
 
 " What is't to thee? thou art not my confessor; 
 And if I did, trust me, I'd keep the secret. 
 Mein Herr, if love were killing me by inches, 
 I'd never give the advantage over me 
 To any man to know I cared for him. 
 Perhaps upon my death-bed I'd relent, 
 And just 'might hint my passion in a codicil, 
 Not to be opened for a score of years ; 
 Even then, that wretch, the man^ might come 
 
 and trample 
 The flowers upon my grave. ■ Confess my love?" 
 
PARTkxi.] MELCHIOR. 213 
 
 But Wolfgang rallied on, his eye on her-— 
 " Stultzer, I rede you to beware of womenj 
 Beware of women ever conquering, 
 But to defeat themselves — still promising, 
 Apd tearing up their bonds — their very truths. 
 The scaffolding for building up a falsehood. 
 On sufferance, accept her — she is well ; 
 Expecting nought, nought hoping from her, — 
 
 pleasing. — '■ 
 Accept her as the jests in a discourse, 
 The play-time hour in all the busy, day j 
 Her voice the school-bell ringing us to play. 
 Her presence, the gay poppies in the harvest, 
 A harmless and a pretty garniture. — 
 A thing bedeckt in stuffs, — tjiat paints and 
 
 trips ; — 
 Pamper it with your compliments ^ your 
 
 tokens, — 
 And when it sheds its teeth — begins to shrivel — 
 Its pretty" pertness seems impertinence — 
 And all that once was grace, ridiculous, 
 
214 MELCHIOR. [part xxi. 
 
 Cast it aside to moulder, and forget it." 
 
 Though mettled with that rank and spiteful pride 
 
 Which leatvens female hearts of common clay, 
 
 Yet for a sweeping slander on her sex 
 
 She never cared a whit. Inquisitive 
 
 Was Clara even as a gipsy's magpie ; 
 
 And many days upon the wanderer, 
 
 Called Blanca, had she fixed such scrutiny, — 
 
 So idle, profitless, and sinister — 
 
 As only woman can upon a woman. 
 
 Then to that oracle of ill and mischief 
 
 Her host, she turned — " Thou knowest every 
 
 thing; 
 What is this mystery ? It angers me ! 
 This woman, her demureness, — the sly power 
 She gaineth on the wealthy Melchior. 
 I vow I will know all — what sayest thou ?" 
 " That lady, my good Frau, can none unriddle. 
 We all guess idly, she is out of fathom. 
 I know what she is not — not what she is. 
 She drops among us, and we rub our eyes. 
 
PART XXI.] MELCHIOR. 215 
 
 For never a more beauteous aerolite 
 
 Fell on the path of mah. She coineth fables." 
 
 " Thou knowest the history of this wanderer," 
 And winsomely she closer drew her seat, 
 " I cannot sleep with guessing, wondering. 
 Hans and your friend Von Stern, between them 
 
 both, 
 Have just about the cunning of a penguin : 
 Pledge me to silence, never secret wandered 
 From ear to lip that hath been whispered me." 
 
 " I ask no pledge from thee," aloud, said 
 Wolfgang, 
 " I whisper not in corners ; what I say, 
 You may proclaim it from the Stadthaus tower, 
 And say I said it." 
 
 " Tell me all," said Clara. 
 Then he related of the hill near Bonn, 
 Topped by the ruined windmill, and the toad- 
 stools. 
 And of the fabled home beside the Kirche. 
 " If," said he, " there be lie legitimate, 
 
2i6 MELCHIOR. [part xxi. 
 
 It is the mask of doubtful antecedents ; 
 
 But there's a relish, scenting out a ■falsehood." 
 
 " Herr HofiT, I undertake to read her riddle. 
 To-morrow will I go, and fish these waters ; 
 A woman only can detect a woman. 
 You call her beauteous ? that pale, puny face ! 
 In sooth I know not why the taste of man, 
 In women's beauty is so dull, so blind." 
 Smiled Wolfgang, satisfied — he had nettled her. 
 " How brilliant is /ler face !" the S]tultzer sighed. 
 When Clara went. 
 
 " I saw it not for paint." 
 
 " But," said the Stultzer, " she rebuked thee 
 boldly ,- 
 In the defence of yonder mystic stranger ; 
 Methought it was a touch most womanly." 
 
 " Aye, like an earring in a sailor's ear, 
 A touch of woman in a forecastle ^ scamp ; 
 It is not in the grain, my simple Stultzer." 
 
 ^ Pronounced fokesil. 
 
PART XXII. 
 
 As from the brow of sunrise part the fogs, 
 •And silently the sun-front cleaves its veil 
 In tranquil victory, so Blanca conquered. 
 She conquered, and, before her brow serene, 
 The shadowy hosts, retired in lingering rout. 
 No more at eve appeared the spectral train, 
 The ghostly arras vanished from the wall, 
 His name dropt not like note of woodland bird 
 Without a tongue to speak it. Light and 
 
 cheer. 
 And woman's gently conquering step and voice ; 
 A woman sate in St. Cecilia's shrine. 
 The woman conquered. Sometimes, for a 
 
 season, 
 A white ascetic figure stood between them, 
 
2i8 MELCHIOR. [part xxii. 
 
 Her phantom hand would clutch at Blanca's arm, 
 
 Her halo glisten upon Blanca's hair ; 
 
 But she too owned the power, and fled away. 
 
 Her lips apart. as with a voiceless shriek. 
 
 And he, in bask of gladness, glancing back 
 
 Upon his spectral past, felt like the child 
 
 In some delicious garden, giddy-eyed. 
 
 Who, with a start and shiver, sees behind 
 
 The cruel splendour of a distant Alp. 
 
 The conquering woman haunted — iilled — his 
 
 soul. 
 As virgin honey fills the luscious comb. 
 His mind was channelled by love-reveries. 
 And down this channel, old and wasted zeal. 
 Love lost in void — devotion beyond speech, 
 Lavished on air — unselfish baseless joy — 
 All joined their currents in one deep love-tide. 
 Lureful realities surrounded him. 
 His mind became a palace for his love. 
 And large warm musings like, its courtiers 
 
 waited ; 
 
PARTXxn.] MELCHIOR. 219 
 
 And there were days through which there was 
 
 no moment 
 That was not spirit-winged, lucent with peace ; 
 In sunshine danced these wavelets of his life, 
 And in each wavelet he intensely lived. 
 Yet, sometimes in the middle of the feast, 
 A hot misgiving came importunate, 
 Knocked at his palace gate, and would be heard, 
 " What shall befall to her when I am gone ? 
 For am I not the banker fraudulent, 
 Who takes in capital from guileless poor. 
 When he must close to-morrow ? Insult, want. 
 Await her at the door when I am gone. 
 That spectral warning hovers at mine ear. 
 That midnight vision, shadow of myself, 
 Doth ever glide betwixt me and my joy. 
 With icy question, ' What betides to her 
 When thou hast left her side for evermore?'" 
 
 Then from the Niederburg his notary came, 
 And brought his will. These were his legacies : — 
 To Hirschvogel he left his library, 
 
220 MELCHIOR. [part xxii. 
 
 In which were curious volumes of black letter, 
 Illumined page, and massive silver clasps ; 
 Old vellums on astrology, quaint herbals, 
 And crabbed tomes on, antique chemistry, 
 Written by hand, along the margin pictured 
 With hominunculi and mystic symbols. 
 Oft had the Doctor, spectacled and eager. 
 Pored o'er these olden treasures, noted faintly 
 With pencilled line of tremulous approval. 
 To Hans, the true, the good, was left such 
 
 bounty 
 Would manumit him from art slavery, 
 Would give his genius scope of wing to rise, 
 And gild at least his common clay of life. 
 " Wolfgang shall never want when I am gone. 
 His heart, intractable — to me alone 
 Turns roughly, coyly, with a secret fondness. 
 No more shall poverty the well embitter ; 
 The cold sea wind kill half the bending tree. 
 For want doth warp the proud unbroken spirit. 
 But heed you well he never guess whose hand 
 
PART XXII.] MELCHIOR., 221 
 
 Hath built the shelter — call it royal pension, 
 Create some distant cousin o'er the sea 
 Who died, and but bequeathed to nearest kin — 
 Else will upbraiding sit upon my grave. 
 And gallM pride tesent the benefit." ' 
 Then willed he that his charities in Ort 
 Should be perpetual : and twice a year 
 A hundred little feathered captives freed. 
 " Now last, not least — nay, precious first of all — 
 A loving legacy, couched jealously 
 In fl:awless phrase — to one most cherished ; 
 For I will set- a golden pale around her 
 To guard her from the smiling profligate 
 Who finds his prey in weak dependent woman ; 
 Convert approaching insult into reverence, 
 Thawing the frosty doubt to charity,' 
 And turning thorny waste to leafy shelter." 
 The notary laid a spotless page before him. 
 And busily, engrossed in formal phrase. 
 The heart-warm words he heard. " What is 
 her name ?" 
 
222 MELCHIOR. [PART XXII. 
 
 He coldly asked — with a suspended pen. 
 
 " Set there the name of Blanca," Melchior said. 
 
 Blanca had entered with a soundless step, 
 She heard her name, perceived the kindly treason 
 They hatched against her singleness of love. 
 She stole behind, peered o'er the notary's 
 
 shoulder. 
 Snatched up the leaf, tore it with passionate hands 
 To fragments, thrust them in the stove, and 
 
 murmured, 
 " Never for me ! Beyond thy life I see not ; 
 Life and its needs for me end with thine end." 
 She went, and all that day she sulked alone. 
 She shut herself within in sullen mood. 
 And' all the next. On the third day she came, 
 And with a loving anger chid his purpose : 
 " There is no need — I speak that I do know — 
 When thou art gone, then let them seek for me 
 Up the wide world and down it, useless quest, 
 Save in a little mound beside thy grave." 
 She ended with a smile, but meaningful. 
 
PART XXII.] MELCHIOR. 223 3 
 
 " Ritter " — thus in fond sport she titled him — 
 " Ritter, I dreamt I stood before a gate 
 That opened on a meadow and a grove ; 
 That meadow lay beneath a witching scope 
 Of light none ever saw except in dreams ; 
 And all the myriad little rura.1 tribes 
 Of flowers were there, of yellow, pink, and white 
 Befrilled, and low ; or pensive peals of bells 
 That lifted stalks erect with airy grace. 
 That grove had nooks of chequered golden 
 
 moss. 
 And throngs of pallid primroses that cowered 
 ■With timid sweetness to the rooted feet 
 Of fir-trees, with their dark festoons of branch ; 
 And in a valley azure lakes of blue-bells. 
 If one were journeying, and that to tarry 
 Would bring, the night on his belated road. 
 Still must he taste the spring in that gay field. 
 You bade me enter, and unhasped the gate. 
 And pushed me in, when stra:ightway you were 
 
 gone. 
 
224 MELCHIOR. [part xxii. 
 
 And of a sudden 'twas a waste of graves, 
 Upon the tombs hung russet immortelles, 
 And those sad flaunting mounds of flowers were 
 
 there, 
 The offspring of decay — nurslings of tears. 
 And there all fronting me, yon vacant tomb, 
 On which was graven Blanca. I awoke. 
 And sister Ursula stood by my bed. 
 With that tart pity on her loveless face, ■ 
 With which the saints tell sinners they are lost. — 
 But I'm come back to thee in spite of her, 
 And, if I die the first, will I come back. 
 When Blanca's ghost comps back 'twill rout the 
 
 levee 
 Of gaping saints., A jealous spiteful sprite, 
 A ghost grimalkin 'mid the ghostly mice. 
 I'll haunt thee all myself I'll warrant thee." 
 He stroked her head. " I say it not to grieve' 
 
 thee, — 
 By ghostly visitation do I know 
 My hour of death ; and thou shalt outlive me 
 
PART XXII.] MELCHIOR. 225 
 
 For many Springs of peeping crocuses, 
 And Summers in their bowery pageantry, 
 And Autumns in their pomp of funeral gold." 
 And then, to turn the theme, he took her face 
 
 And framed it in his hands, "The fairest fade 
 
 Now will I give posterity a booh ; 
 
 When, like last summer's-rose, this dear young 
 
 face 
 Hath vanished and not left a memory, 
 Its shadow shall look down on generations, 
 
 ,For Hans, the wizard, with his brush the wand. 
 Shall fix thee on the canvas by a spell, 
 
 , Like an imprisoned dame of old romance." 
 He sought about to gratify, to honour, 
 
 : One who forgot herself in thought of him. 
 And even wake a woman's weaknesses. 
 In her who passed a mirror without glance. 
 -Spurning the view of such wan loveliness, 
 As many a youth and man would see and die. 
 A woman that could look upon a jewel 
 As if 'twould sting to touch. — A weary look 
 Q 
 
226 MELCHIOR. [part xxii. 
 
 Shaded her brow, then her divining heart 
 Felt 'twas his wish, and she resigned herself. 
 
 And now at Munich looketh down that face 
 From gallery wall, and he whom I may win 
 To linger fondly in an afterthought 
 With her, — ^this woman peerless in the world, — 
 May see her plaintive shadow ever there. 
 Hans came with ample colour-box and easel, 
 " How good wert thou to me," she, flushing, said. 
 And ' pressed 'twixt her two palms his shapely 
 
 hand. 
 " For me you took some injury and insult. 
 And little thanks, but thanks grow warm with 
 
 keeping." 
 Then, as a handmaid, did she tend on him. 
 And, as a child, she hearkened to his story 
 Of his own picture, meekly gazing up 
 At the procession, all in vestments blue. 
 Though little knew she of his darling art. 
 But when she sat to him her interest sank, 
 It went black out, she had no pleasure in it ; 
 
PART xxii.] MPLCHIOR. 227 
 
 The vanity of woman was stone-dpad. 
 But Hans' heart expanded to his theme. 
 Enchantment whp but painter can define ! 
 ^When he doth fill his sight with that sweet 
 pattern 
 Of beauty's mould, the model of his choice. 
 Content triumphant, and delightful toil ! 
 The unborn picture stirs within the brain, 
 The tranced ideal wakes to breathing form. 
 The canvas glows with the delicibus secret. 
 Seems to steal life from its warm prototype 
 Which shall immortally be mirrored there. 
 Bordone knew it ; dazzling fair was she, 
 Stately, and crimson-robed, and gleaming hair : 
 And Leonardo found it ; almond-eyed. 
 And smiling was she, mid her sparry cliffs ; 
 And Andrea ; false was she, violet-eyed, 
 Demurely beautiful, of holy seeming ; 
 And Boticelli felt it ; mystic-pale. 
 And weird grey gaze his wistful fancy queen. 
 Hans plied his brush, forgetting place and time. 
 
228 MELCHIOR. V [part xxii, 
 
 Until the dusk ; a little weary sigh^ 
 
 Awoke his shame. Her patience majfrvellous 
 
 Sustained the frenzied cruelty of art 
 
 So well that Hans forgot the suffering Hf( 
 
 " I prithee pardon," said he, " I take shame ; 
 
 The parting light should be the first to warn me 
 
 That I should sometime cease. Thy beauty 
 
 blame. 
 Please you to look," he said. She rose and 
 
 gazed — 
 " Too comely far," she murmured listlessly. 
 But as she looked, a supple hand on hip, 
 A finger pensiyely upon her lip. 
 Upon her face there came a sudden radiance, ~ 
 And, with a soft clap of the hands, she cried— ' 
 , " In sooth, since thou hast martyred me to-day, 
 St. Cecily shall find her type in me, 
 And thus shalt thou requite my saintly patience." 
 Hans paused and pondered. "Aye, it is the 
 
 type." 
 " Paint me as Saint Cecilia, and I'll sit 
 
PARTXXii.] MELCHIOR. 229 
 
 As patient as a heron on a stone. 
 
 A white robe and a nimbus — it is done." 
 
 Hans cried, " My picture shall be Saint Cecilia." 
 
 Scarcely the good man tasted that repose 
 
 Which comes of a conviction born within, 
 
 When agitation seized him, at a voice 
 
 He knew too well, which grated every nerve — 
 
 His shrewish spouse had come to visit Blanca ; 
 
 She glared him from the room. "Fraulein," 
 
 she said, 
 " One woman owes another timely warning 
 When scandal breedeth," " Scandal ?" Blanca 
 
 echoed, 
 " Upon yon pool the duckweed cometh up 
 And sinketh, for another idle crop ; 
 'Tis so with scandal, I reck nothing of it." 
 Then, with a woman's art approaching — 
 
 sounding, 
 Disguising avid curiosity 
 Jn hollow sympathy, but finding nought. 
 Her battery she unmasKed with sudden temper : 
 
230 MELCHIOR. [part xxh. 
 
 "Thou hast declared," said Clara, "that thy 
 
 convent 
 Where thou wert reared, is on a hill at Bonn ; 
 Nought there save an old mill and poisonous 
 
 toadstools. 
 The mansion of thy father, sooth, was built 
 Of those grey shifting storehouses of rain 
 That hang above us. There is no such mansion. 
 What was thy life before ? What drove thee 
 
 homeless?" 
 Unmoved was Blanca, there she calmly stood — 
 " My life, thou seest it. 'Twas what thou wilt ; — 
 I have forgotten. Take the panel blank 
 And paint it to thy fancy. I reck nothing." 
 Her pendant hands she lifted slightly out 
 From either side, then dropped them listlessly. 
 As one would say, "Enough, I have said all." 
 And Clara left her in an utter rout. 
 Defeated by mere absence of defence. 
 
 And fain would I wash each conjecture, pure. 
 And from her memory weed the cold suspicion. 
 
PARTXXii.] MELCHIOR. 231 
 
 I cannot tell. More deeply, tenderly, 
 
 Than words can breathe, I love the thought of 
 
 her. 
 Five years of mortal life would I forego 
 To be with her just from one moon to moon, 
 Bait for her smiles, hang questions on her 
 
 sighs ; 
 Like Rizpah nightly watching" o'er her sons. 
 Drive the foul birds and prowling wolves away 
 Of sorrow, memory, fear ; weave gladnesses 
 From morn to eve, fond cheats to win the heart. 
 Breathe in the enchantment, in the mournful 
 
 bliss 
 Shed by her presence — presence owned by me. 
 Just from one moon to moon. 
 This much remains^ — The priest who did confess 
 
 her 
 Hinted there was no guilt — I kt^ow no more. 
 
PART XXIII. 
 
 Now in the castle hall rings Wolfgang's hammer. 
 His spirit chafed with rankling gratitude ; 
 And so with passionate industry he toils, 
 To drown in toil pride's feverish upbraidings. 
 His friend and equal, whom he loved yet pitied, 
 Melchior was metamorphised to a patron. 
 Then angered pride did wildly cast about. 
 To wipe the score out blank — ^repay it fourfold. 
 A week ago, while yet his gold was rife, 
 He posted leagues away with secret zeal. 
 On some quixotic venture southerward. 
 He came back poor. His native idleness. 
 Under the spur of poverty — rough-rider — 
 Was lashed into a desperate: industry, 
 And lenten fare on luxury did follow. 
 
PARTXXin.] MELCHIOJl. 233 
 
 With Spartan cold content -^ complaint he 
 
 scorned. 
 Drawings, and prints of costume on the floor, 
 His rough clay models, propped by chair or 
 
 table, 
 Lay round ; the models pointed by his hands. 
 The marble, outlined, flew beneath his chisel. 
 Tall was he, gaunt, full of a wiry strength. 
 In labourer's blouse attired from neck to knee, 
 His hair, escaped from queue, rebellious rose ; 
 And wild, even to ferocity, his head, 
 And the infernal beauty of his face. 
 The shadow of that head upon the wall 
 Was weird as a Medusa, grimly fine ; 
 His nervous hands, veined like a burdock leaf, 
 Gripped dexterous the chisel and the mallet. 
 Sometimes with delicate chink, chink, he worked, 
 Anon with stroke quick, fierce and venomous, 
 That cleared off slice on slice. 
 He scowled and gnawed his lips, and sometimes 
 
 grinned. 
 
234 MELCHIOR. [part xxni. 
 
 The subject on the friezes in relief, 
 On marble surbase — was the pilgrimage 
 Of mailed Crusaders in their tunics long, 
 The cross upon their breasts, and battle-axe 
 Hung from the saddle-bow. The men-at-arms 
 Came thronging after with their grove of spears. 
 The treatment was diversified by Wolfgang — 
 And o'er them soared, but why, no man could 
 
 tell, 
 A flight of goblins, with the wings of bats. 
 And one, a monster, had the head of Hans. 
 "And how shall I requite this benefit?" 
 He muttered as he toiled, he toiled and muttered. 
 At length he paused, and musing, gazed aslant, 
 A marble fragment kicked, and thus he spoke : 
 " And how shall I requite this benefit ? 
 It galls me, 'tis a fever in my blood. 
 Teufels ! must I the first time in my life 
 Be tongue-tied, nauseous honey on my lip. 
 And fear to talk my mind at wayward whim ? 
 A gift? what should I give?" His wandering eyes 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 235 
 
 Fell on the pistol, costly thing of art. 
 The gifts of a proud spirit are of price ; 
 Oft'times the trader saw with greedy eye 
 That masterwork, tempted his poverty, 
 But proudly, fondly still he clung to it. 
 " 'Tis all I have to give," he muttered lothly, 
 " And since 'tis dear to me, it shall be Melchior's." 
 He slowly donned his lapelled coat, and pinned 
 The ruffle ripped, within the ample sleeve,, 
 Plumed limply out the lace upon his breast, 
 And buckled on his sword in perky slant ; 
 And then he took his pistol from the wall. 
 The coxcomb thing he gazed on tenderly. 
 The toy of vanity without a use. 
 There sat the squatted boar upon the hammer, 
 Work exquisite of hoof, and tusk, and bristle, 
 In frosted silver ; e'en the tiny ear 
 Chiselled with truth minute ; the walnut 
 
 handle 
 Scrolled o'er with ivy leaves to give it grasp. 
 And the long barrel damascened with silver. 
 
236 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 "And I must part with thee, my bright 
 
 companion, 
 Thou cunning work, so true to eye and finger, 
 And thou must lie on some museum shelf. 
 For idle curious eyes — dry virtuosi. 
 Yet would I hear thy crabbed note once more, 
 I sometimes wish my voice were bulleted." 
 He charged it, primed it, thrust it in his belt ; 
 Setting his broad-brimmed hat upon his head 
 A little jauntily, he wended forth. 
 Along the road, beneath the pleasant lindens, 
 And strode among the strewed yellow leaves, 
 When a high, genial voice pronounced his name, 
 A lightsome gait and touch upon his shoulder " 
 His steps arrested — there Hirschvogel stood. 
 "What think you now? what of our patient, 
 
 Wolfgang ?" 
 He drew his shoulders back so brisk and jocund, , 
 He shook off sixty years upon the road. 
 And such a strutting of his shapely legs 
 Among the rustling leaves, — such gallant port. 
 
PART xxiiL] MELCHIOR. 237 
 
 " Said I not beauty was a precious drug, 
 Not to be found in spicy India, 
 Not in the mine, nor in the ocean soundings ; 
 A chymic force untold? The woman conquers !" 
 Then, facing him with a triumphant smile, 
 He seized his arm, and, for an emphasis, 
 Held Wolfgang standing — rounding his bright 
 
 - eyes. 
 " 'Twill search his malady, even to the root, 
 Loosen each fibre : we shall pluck it out." 
 
 "Truth is the oldest thing, and love the 
 youngest, 
 In this old world," said Wolfgang. " Fourscore 
 
 years ! 
 And meddling still with such a drug as love ?" 
 
 " Truth is the newest thing in this old worjd," 
 HirschvogeLsaid, philosopher in Science, 
 " And truth hath the veneering of a falsehood ; 
 So, happy, siniple mankind laughs it down. 
 Its herald is a sneer — its road is strife. 
 It hews its painful way through mockery. 
 
238 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 At every step it trampleth down some beauty, 
 And leaveth mankind sadder than before. 
 Love is the oldest thing in this old world, 
 Old as the sun, and still reborn at sunrise, 
 And love hath the veneering of a truth, 
 Which still deceives with a perennial gloze ; ' 
 Yet I adore the antique Fallacy ; 
 In its immortal bloom I hold it dearer. 
 Than this new thing of skull and bones called 
 Truth." 
 " Well, be he charlatan or mad," said Wolf- 
 gang, 
 " Be love the fitting drug for guile or madness : 
 The man hath put a gag upon my lips 
 And yoked me with a benefit more crushing 
 Than was the babe upon St. Christopher. 
 From none that lives but him could I endure it. 
 Since thy great feast," Hirschvogel blandly said, 
 "Thou hast been absent, Wolfgang, in the south." 
 Laughed Wolfgang — " So was St. Cecilia." 
 Silent perplexity was in the look 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 239 
 
 Of old Hirschvogel — ^Wolfgang laughed his fill. 
 " On Melchior's affairs I travelled south, 
 Yet Melchior knoweth not and recketh not. 
 Methinks if all go well I take the ^rize 
 From our physician for the true specific 
 Wherewith to medicine the mind's disease. 
 What think'st thou of that mental draught called 
 Fame?" 
 " I care not, Wolfgang, for thy parables." 
 " Hirschvogelj there, is one in all the world 
 Who hath compelled my love — too strong that 
 word " — 
 " Nay, alter not the word," said old Hirsch- 
 vogelj 
 And softly laid his hand on Wolfgang's arm, 
 " 'Tis Melchior thou lovest — tell thy tale." 
 " His music may perchance have hidden 
 beauties. 
 What failed in Bonn may flame in Nuremberg, 
 And all the southern cities of our land. 
 The jest that feebly fizzed at neighbour Slieman's, 
 
240 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 At neighbour Sommer's rises like a rocket. 
 
 From Melchior I obtained a copied score 
 
 Of St. Cecilia, and had languid leave 
 
 To do with it whatever listed me; 
 
 He hath forgot by this his cold consent. 
 
 In Nuremberg there lives a wealthy fool — - 
 
 A golden man upon gross feet of clay — 
 
 All powerful, he hath the wand of wealth, 
 
 And wieldeth it for public charity. 
 
 That self-advertisement called Charity, 
 
 On which a brainless plutocrat doth build 
 
 His immortality, and buys renown. 
 
 Of covert charity — of friendly aid — 
 
 Such as might lift to land a drowning debtor — 
 
 From him was never record. Splendid show, 
 
 A public ball, a grand al fresco f6te ; 
 
 A play, a feast, a music festival. 
 
 An oratorio — all for charity." 
 
 Said Hirschvogel, " He hath my reverence. 
 Why grub for evil motive in good deeds ?" 
 
 " This charitable monster have I known 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 241 
 
 These twenty years — He deems me prosperous. 
 And, if he knew my poverty, he'd shun me." 
 
 " That thou hast never proved," smiled 
 Hirschvogel, 
 
 " I never asked a favour-r-had it not. 
 He hath the craze for music, not the art ; ■ 
 Then, with this music tempest in my wallet, 
 I posted all the leagues to Nuremberg, 
 And met the god upon his marble stair, / 
 Not as a siiitor, but as man to man. 
 Before his eyes I held the masterpiece, 
 I nothing lauded — nay, I told its history. 
 He grasped at it — 'What know they in the 
 
 horth ? 
 Sir, it shall be performed for charity !' 
 ' If it succeed,' said I, ' Be it my task 
 To cast for thee in bronze a head colossal. 
 And thou shalt set it in the Markt-platz, 
 Where it shall ever stand for Charity.' " 
 
 " If I be by, when men shall call thee 
 hard," 
 
 R 
 
242 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 Said Hirschvogel, " I will relate this deed ; 
 
 Cold Prejudice shall break into acclaim ! 
 
 Who says we cannot gather figs from thorns ? 
 
 Thou hast well done — brayo thou and thy 
 Croesus ! : 
 
 Jf this succeed, I strike my flag to thee. 
 
 Speak not of it — The green fruit of the hope 
 
 Pluck not — till fall to us the splendid fruit, 
 
 His pride, "his joy, his graj:itude to thee !" 
 With careless shrug, said Wolfgang — 
 " Gratitude ! 
 
 To him who gives, to him who takes, the same, 
 
 The weight, the damp, the pain is — gratitude." 
 Said Hirschvogel — " No tax is gratitude ; 
 
 It is the bounteous harvest of the heart, 
 
 In which was sown from frie'ndly open hand, 
 
 That benefit the sower soon forgot. 
 
 Gratitude ! it is love's own memory !" 
 
 " It is the mildew on the crop," said Wolf- 
 gang ; 
 
 " I'd rather feed the memory of a wrong ; 
 
PAiiT XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 243 
 
 Yet would I Wake and work to pay my score — 
 The debt of hatred or the debt of kindness." 
 " Aye, Wolfgang/' cried Hirschvogel, deaf to 
 him, 
 " There is that wound of failure ever open ; 
 Thy emulous loyalty outstrips us all. 
 What balm if in our German Fatherland, 
 His fame expand in ever-widening circles : 
 And those deaf adders 'neath the heel of shame 
 Be scotched and hide their little hissing heads. 
 My heart is big to-day ! Thou hast well done ! " 
 With an emphatic nod the Doctor left him, 
 Without another comment. He had spoken, 
 But when he was a hundred paces distant. 
 He turned, and waved his hand, and laughed 
 
 aloud ; 
 Then on his shoulders fell the years again. 
 But, husbanding himself, he tripped along. 
 And Wolfgang, musing, strolled, till at the gate 
 Of Melchior's garden, when his short harsh laugh • 
 Seemed to say Amen to his reverie. 
 
244 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 He entered, to his knock came stout Dutch John. 
 "Where is your master?" asked he in low 
 
 Dutch, 
 And Wolfgang launched at him a sportive blow 
 Full in his brawny chest John laughed de- 
 lighted, 
 Tickled and gratified, he waved his pipe. 
 Then pointed with the stem mysteriously 
 Towards the open chamber door, said thickly, 
 " Hy is niet t'huis. Schoon zingt de lieve Vrow, 
 Myn zoon en ik missen geen enk'le noot.V 
 This was the scene that greeted Wolfgang's 
 
 eye — 
 As at the open door he paused a moment — 
 A small Dutch John, a burly five-year old, 
 A baby Hercules stood there within. 
 Planted robustly upon fat brown legs. 
 The feet apart, the stomach foirward thrust. 
 The little welded arms tucked well behind. 
 And the mouth open, listening like the ears. 
 And Blanca, bending o'er the dulcimer, 
 
^PARTXxm.] MELCHIOR. 245 
 
 Played liquidly a little cradle song, 
 And sung to it in sweet low undertone. 
 And in the air still hung the sleepy circles 
 Of the bra,ve father's pipe — he had been listening. 
 This was the cradle song that Blanca' sung : — 
 
 " Schaukeln und gaukeln, 
 
 Halb wachender Traum, 
 Schlafst du ? mein Kindlein, 
 
 Ich weiss es kaum. 
 Halt' zu dein Augelein, 
 
 Draussen geht der Wind, 
 Spiel fort dein Traumlein, 
 
 Mein herzHebes Kind. 
 D'rauss^n geht der Wind, 
 
 Reiss' die Blumen vom Baum, 
 Reiss' die Bliithen vom Zweig, 
 
 Spiel fort deinen Traum. 
 Spiel fort deinen Traum Blitz-Augelein 
 
 Schaukeln und gaukeln, 
 Sitz ich und wein." 
 
 "Ha!" murmured Wolfgang, "she hath been a 
 
 mother." 
 At sight of him the pitetty scene dissolved — 
 An angel and a cherub at some game 
 
246 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 Of Paradise, surprised by Lucifer. 
 
 Blanca, confused and startled, gently dropped 
 
 The little drumming ivories, soft bulbed, 
 
 And small Dutch John waddled off solemiily — ■ 
 
 Upon one cheek a smear, of red preserve. 
 
 Then Wolfgang took her hand, and gallantly 
 
 He touched it with his lips. " Hoch, hoch ! 
 
 mein Schatz, 
 Hoch, hoch ! the conquering woman ! Hold 
 
 thine own ! 
 Thou art in single combat with a saint, 
 And clutch'st her by the throat. Moonbeams 
 
 ' and cobwebs ! 
 This little hand would sweep a myriad ghosts 
 Into the dust-bin of the centuries. 
 Preserve Cecilia in a spirit jar, 
 A preparation of a Christian martyr !" 
 The portrait caught his eye, and sternly fell 
 His heavy brows, he stood erect before it. 
 Crossing his arms. " It is a gifted knave. 
 Aye, good — the toad hath yet the jewelled eye. 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 247 
 
 A genius and a sneak. A gifted knave." 
 Not for his hate would he belie his judgment. 
 "Nay, not a sneak," she said, "to serve his 
 
 friend. 
 Methinks he owed thee nothing but a blow." 
 " My little lady," tartly answered Wolfgang, 
 " I never argue. Hans Stultz is a knave. 
 I own he hath a pretty advocate. 
 Till she can talk the tarnish from the flagon 
 Lipped all the night by greasy revellers, 
 Till he can paint the falsehood to the truth, 
 Hans Stultz is a false knave — Enough, 'tis so." 
 He turned away, and took a mocking tone. 
 "And what, mein Schatz, dost thou propose 
 
 to do ? 
 Beneath the elder tree is Melchior's toriib. 
 We are all bidden to his funeral. 
 And as a man doth fix his wedding day. 
 Or take his passage duly,' outward bound, 
 So Melchior hath counselled with his soul 
 What day she must unfold her parting wings, 
 
248 MELCHIOR. [PART XXIII. 
 
 And he betake him to the marble mansion 
 Which hath in it one chamber and one couch." 
 " He who gave back my life — gave back my 
 
 peace — 
 He shall de\;ermine. Something whispereth — 
 A comfortable word, that bides with me, 
 That singeth lullaby to every fear, — 
 I shall not outlive him, and this contents me." 
 Updn her shoulder Wolfgang laid his hand. 
 " When thou hast danced upon his lattice pane 
 And hummed thy song, when thou or he grow 
 
 weary. 
 Come dance thou upon mine — thou shalt be 
 
 welcome." 
 She stepped from 'neath his hand, and shook 
 
 her head. 
 " Again, mein Herr, I say thou dost not know 
 
 ' me." 
 " I spoke to prove thee, Fraiilein. Least should I 
 Plot by a word or thought 'gainst Melchior's 
 
 peace ; 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 249 
 
 I should have writ his epithalamium ; 
 Now 'twere the epithalamium of two doves. 
 Nor woman nor yet angel art thou, Fraiilein ; 
 Here dost thou come in face of all the town 
 And challenge penalty without the pleasure, 
 Thou,takest all the stain without the sin. 
 I bid thee build thy nest beneath his eave, 
 And fly not nightly to the frozen realm 
 Of hooded crones, in their pale eyes a blight. 
 Thou lovest Melchior, be all to him." 
 A moment's troubled silence held her voice, 
 And then it came, unangered, piteously, 
 " I see thee in the light his friendship sheds, 
 And whom he loves need never ask my pardon, 
 Before the pain hath died have I forgiven. 
 Pain me e'en as thou wilt, but honour him, 
 The noble and the good whose heart thou hast. 
 And yet I think didst thou know more of me. 
 Thou wouldst be loth to wound me." Wolf- 
 gang melted. 
 There was a plaintive grace that vanquished him. 
 
2SO MELCHIOR. [PART XXIII. 
 
 " Your pardon, little lady," said he, humbly. 
 Then smit with shame at the unwonted softness 
 Her voice stole frorti him, to the casement 
 
 strode he. 
 And whistled carelessly some snatcl^ of tune. 
 Blocking the door, with colour-box in hand. 
 Stood worthy Hans ; as shies a startled horse 
 At sudden gleam of white on midnight road. 
 He started, tottered backward for a pace. 
 Blanca came to his comfort, took his box, 
 And drew him gently in, and sheltered him 
 'Gainst the fierce broadside shot from Wolf- 
 gang's eyes. 
 Lifeless the touch from Hans' unnerved hand 
 That late fell broad and sweet upon the canvas. 
 To Blanca's pleasant talk came vague replies,. 
 Or a plethoric sigh stood for response. 
 Then Wolfgang took a sheet of music scores. 
 And, on the blank, with vigorous -charcoal 
 
 sketched 
 A head of Hans in horrible grotesque. 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 251 
 
 He drew him as a plump, but ruffled cock, 
 Dropt on his wing, most miserably meek ; 
 His wife, a vixen hen, stood on him clawing. 
 With a wing feather in her beak, her eyes 
 A ring of venom ; and he held it up 
 To Blanca, but her eyes were fixed in pity 
 Upon the humbled painter, comfortful. 
 And thus did Wqlfgang spurt secreted venom 
 At his fat victim reddening from the stings. 
 " A henpecked coward, born but to be beaten ; 
 Gross butt for mockery, on which mud 'sticks 
 • As native to it : tolerant to tarflish. 
 A woman's mouth, as woman's treacherous, 
 And redolent of beer ; 
 
 From home all day, a waddling drunken truant,, 
 A scheming knave who steals men's bread 
 
 away." 
 Then Blanca, sick with pity, came between, 
 " Sing for me, mein Herr Stultz, the Liebchen 
 
 song." 
 To give him heart, she hummed the melody. 
 
252 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 " The song of the two sleepsy do sing it me." 
 Mellow and clear as gurgling nightingale 
 Was Hans' voice, a tenor tender-pitched, 
 Round, sweet, and high, it made the glasses 
 
 chime ; 
 And mingling into. Blanca's hum it rose 
 Trembling at first, then settling into song. 
 
 THE TWO SLEEPS. 
 
 " We watched together the gleaners bend 
 Over the amber lea ; 
 And the Liebchen and I dropped fast asleep. 
 And there in the sun slept we. 
 
 Oh pleasantly there we slept together, 
 'Twas in the soft and the sunny weather, 
 And there in the sun slept we. 
 
 " Bending over the Liebchen's grave. 
 There where I longed to lie, 
 The sun was warm, and I slept on her mound, 
 And there slept the Liebchen and L 
 
 Oh there once more did we sleep together, 
 'Twas in the soft and the sunny weather, 
 And there slept the Liebchen and I." 
 
PART xxin.] MELCHIOR. 253 
 
 " Again ! again !" she cried, '' sing it again !" 
 As asks a child again the well-worn tale, 
 And, as he sang, intently Wolfgang listened, 
 , Forgetting rancour in the melody ; 
 Just as the charmer with his Indian conch 
 Doth fascinate the slowly swaying cobra, 
 So Hans held Wolfgang with a charm of song. 
 What sudden pleasure kindles on his face ? 
 And why doth she arise, as in a palace 
 A courtier rises when the king comes in ? 
 Melchior had listened till the song was done. 
 Then entered and brought peace and reverence. 
 Upon the shoulder of St. Christopher, 
 Heavy and heavier sat the stranger child : 
 On Wolfgang's pride the debt of gratitude 
 Heavy and heavier waxed ; yet was he moved, 
 And meeting Melchior midway, he stretched 
 A wiry grip, and caught him by the hand, 
 Nor dropped it whilst he spoke. His voice was 
 
 strained 
 And somewhat lofty and unnatural. 
 
254 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 " I never have been bounden to a man, 
 
 But fought my way, and kicked through every 
 
 trouble. 
 And therefore do I lack the grace of thanks ; 
 But thou art kind, and whosoe'er I meet 
 As kind, I will not call him good or noble, 
 I'll call him Melchior. Enough of that." 
 He paused, as if a hand had seized his throat. 
 But Melchior made light of benefit. 
 " How thou dost err," said Melchior heartily, 
 " Thou art the benefactor, I the client. 
 For genius is the patron, not the purse 
 Which still would set a price upon the priceless. 
 The Prince and I, my friend, must rest your 
 debtors." 
 
 Incredulously Wolfgang shrugged and spoke 
 
 " Here is a toy," he said, " I weary of," 
 
 And from his belt he drew the embossed 
 
 pistol ; 
 " Accept it from me. Take it as a token 
 More than a gift. It is my handiwork." 
 
PART XXIII.] MELCHIOR. 255 
 
 " What should I do with it ?" said Melchior. 
 ■ " Do with it ? make a target of thy ghosts ! 
 Nay, take it as a curiosity : 
 Teufels ! at least there is some art in it." 
 Then Melchior perceived the festering pride, 
 And took the present. With a wayward change. 
 The nauseous question Wolfgang dashed aside. 
 Again he gripped his benefactor's hand, 
 And waved to Blanca with a careless nod : 
 He turned and scowled at Hans — and gibing 
 
 sternly, 
 " I ever thought a traitor should be lean. 
 That cunning harboured in a skinny case. 
 Now can I point, thank heaven, to a fat knave. 
 And I can tell the world I've seen at last 
 That novelty-^— sly malice with a paunch." 
 Then came the loud harsh" laugh, and fiercely 
 
 gay 
 He looked at Melchior as for assent. 
 Then went contented, having wreaked his 
 
 spleen. 
 
256 MELCHIOR. [PART XXIII. 
 
 " Hans, heed him not, the dogs may bay the 
 
 moon 
 Throughout the summer night, nor cloud her 
 
 face. 
 Then heed him nof — among the few I love 
 And honour, for a stainless, honest man. 
 Is one a painter, whom they call Hans Stultz." 
 At kindly word the tightened heart unloosed. 
 To Hans' eye uprose the sudden tear. 
 And Blanca marked it, sharply at her heart 
 Compassion gnawed ; what could she do for him ? 
 How raise the humbled spirit, salve the sting ? 
 It was her misery, this sleepless pity. 
 The- luxury the agony of pity ! 
 She knew the balni of praise would soonest 
 
 soothe 
 The wounded heart; she pointed to the picture 
 And beckoned Melchior, with that proud mute- 
 ' ness. 
 Which said, " Here's wonderment in store for 
 
 thee. 
 
PART xxiii.] MELCHIOR. 257 
 
 Here is our mystery." As Melchior looked. 
 Slight spasm of concealed emotion throbbed 
 Across his brow. He closed his eyes a moment ; 
 He looked again beneath a shading hand, 
 And then, without a word, he turned away 
 And left them. Blanca mused upon his mood 
 And mutely turned the picture to the wall. 
 Right heavy grew the gentle Hans at heart,. 
 All he could do was done, till after months, 
 When came the wizard tone, when amber light 
 Should flood o'er all — the harvest time of colour. 
 " He thinks it cold, perhaps, too' broadly treated, 
 Or fails it in resemblance ?" " Comfort thee," 
 Said Blanca, " all too much he prizeth it, 
 To tell thee. Cunningly I watched his face, 
 Delight hath struck him mute, and mimics pain." 
 Still mindful of that tear, the sudden tear. 
 She donned her hood in haste, to walk with him. 
 And bring him cheer, brave smiles, and play- 
 fulness. 
 And cuniiing flatteries from woman's lip. 
 
2S8 MELCHIOR. [part xxiii. 
 
 But furtively did Melchior steal back 
 To feast his eyes alone. He laid the picture 
 Upon the easel, and he sate before it, ^ 
 And o'er his light blue eyes the lids half fell, 
 And curtained dreams of longing and of love. 
 Half the incarnate saint, and half the woman. 
 Looked out on him. The still infection grew 
 Of passion, and its hectic caught his blood. 
 Delight, with something in it of despair. 
 And longing, something in it of regret. 
 Oh, night most memorable, chance divine. 
 Which gave her to him, set her in his life 
 Even for so brief a season ! Happy he. 
 Who, ere he dies, can cry, " I drank the 'nectar, 
 The sweet mad nectar of accomplished love." 
 
PART XXIV. 
 
 DUTCH JOHN. 
 
 Reposing idly on an autumn noon, 
 , A reverie had Melchior. Xhere are moments 
 When the most common object takes a strange- 
 ness, 
 As if ne'er seen before — some novel light 
 Strikes on it, or our mood is strange and 
 
 new. 
 Dutch John, one eyebrow raised in, unconcern. 
 Was cleaning brasses — marvellously blank — 
 Tamely mechanical. A touch of envy 
 And wonder took his master's idle musings. 
 How such a peace could rest on any man 
 As that which slept upon the burly frame. 
 The bovine fprehead of the brave Dutch John. 
 
26o MELCHIOR. [part xxiv. 
 
 This man, he thought, might teach me how to 
 
 live, 
 For there is something feverish in my joy ; 
 It hath a shadow, Dutch John's peace hath none. 
 And, as he gazed, this was his reverie — 
 " As is thy mind to minds of busy men. 
 So is the dial to a busy watch — 
 Though never out of order, oft a blank. 
 Simple and rigid, full of passive patience, 
 Without a tale to tell, till sunshine hour. 
 What is thy sunshine ? At the welcome kiss 
 Of Frau and children ? Evening pipe and 
 
 flagon ? 
 Is there aught, then, that I could learn of thee ? 
 Hath jealousy or love in primal germs 
 Ere rooted on that crag my bold Dutch John ? 
 What frolic thought could shake thy solemn 
 
 sides ? 
 The blessing that thy silence was to me ! 
 Thy leaden eye that sees, yet seeth not ; 
 Thou treasury of massive nothingness ! 
 
PART XXIV.] MELCHIOR. 261 
 
 Dutch John, thy shoulders measure by the yard ; 
 A yearful of thy thoughts would fill a span. 
 No chafing haste, or hope with galling spur. 
 Or doubt that mildews joy, is known to thee. 
 I've heard thy laugh below-r— a lusty laugh ; 
 I've heard thy beer-jug clap its pewter Ijd 
 As though it laughed. In spring, thou hast 
 
 i thy tulips. 
 And on the frayed lip of every flower 
 Is a Dutch greeting, shining little gossips 
 Which chat to thee of Holland silkily. ■ 
 And thy great pipe, like a familiar goblin, 
 Tells thee great vap'ry nothings in round puffs ; 
 Round as thy country's cheeses are thine, 
 
 answers. 
 You ruminate, not think, and nothing comes, 
 And nothing you expect. You never wonder. 
 If you should meet a centaur on the road. 
 You'd stare unquestioning, pass on to supper. 
 I've seen thee sit before the Wein-Stube, 
 Under the linden, a large solemn face. 
 
262 MELCHIOR. [part xxiv. 
 
 And aim to crush a fly upon thy knee, 
 With empty flagon, and fixed fishy eye. 
 And I have fancied a dull interest. 
 An instinct of the chase was wakening there. 
 You missed, and calmly set the flagon down. 
 If you were changed to bronze, my lusty 
 
 John, 
 And yonder set upon the city portal, 
 'To keep a vigil on our enemies, 
 Where you would neither warn, nor budge an 
 
 inch, 
 The transformation could not alter you. 
 Now will I learn the secret of this calm : 
 Is it in fibre, ganglion, or phlegm ? 
 Or is it in thy state, and law of life ? — 
 The outcome is a peace, next thing to death." 
 In good low Dutch he said, " Hearken, friend 
 
 John." 
 He crossed the room, and clapped John on the 
 
 shoulder — 
 " Dutch John, dost tholi believe in ghosts ?" 
 
PART XXIV.] MELCHIOR. 263 
 
 "Jul' said Dutch John. "Seen any," asked 
 
 his master. 
 John. — "Geen spooken! Maarmyn vrow heeft 
 
 een gezien .'" 
 MELCHIOR. — " His Frau hath seen one." {To 
 
 John)— 
 
 " How appeared this ghost ?" 
 John. — " ' Twas niets als een jeugdig meisjis 
 
 Warrop het maanlicKe scheen." 
 Melchior. — '"Twas but a maiden's smock 
 hung in the moonlight ? 
 All fancy then — what if the forms I saw 
 Were only brain -born — vain- as wildering 
 
 moonlight? « 
 
 This man, perhaps, can love." {To John) — 
 " Fond of thy Vrow ?" 
 John. — "/a,ja ! den gantchen dag denk ik aan 
 
 hoar." 
 Melchior. — "He thinks of her all day ; an 
 amorous oyster." 
 
264 MELCHIOR. [PART XXIV. 
 
 John. — " En breng haar bloemen mee." 
 Melchior. — " He brings her home sweet 
 flowers." {To John) — "And what doth 
 she?" 
 John. — " Zy steekt myn pyp, aan geeft my weder 
 bier. 
 En zoent my ! ! haar zoenen zyn 
 zoo zoet ! " 
 Melchior. — " She lights his pipe, aVid on his 
 lager bier 
 She puts a head,, and then she kisses him. 
 Sweet kisses ! 'Tis a wife'^s epitome." 
 John. — " Wy gaan te zamen uit." 
 Melchior. — " And you walk out together, 
 brave Dutch John ? 
 I'll live like him — dream all day of my 
 
 Liebcken, , 
 Her smiles, her wayg, her words shall fill the 
 
 stage! 
 Of daily life, and rout the ghosts away. 
 In hours of toil I'll plan our evening stroll ; 
 
PART XXIV.] MELCHIOR. , 26s 
 
 And in our evening stroll, the next day's toil. 
 Life's music, it shall beat to homely rhythm. 
 The vulgar highroad is the healthiest, 
 What poetry is in the prose of life ! 
 I'll row my Liebchen out on river calms, 
 Or lend a love-tale to lone autumn nooks. 
 We shall have horsfes, and give chase to' love 
 Over the far blue hills." Then in low 
 
 Dutch — 
 " John, trusty John, set me a foaming flagon 
 At eventide ; charge a great pipe for me ; 
 Hang crosswise foils above my mantelpiece, 
 And pistols. Let the room look like the 
 
 haunt 
 Of careless spendthrift, who hath bid farewell 
 To books, and welcomes in fresh lusty life. 
 Canst play at quarter staff? Bring two 
 - stout staves 
 
 And masks of wire ; we'll cudgel every morn ; 
 Strike for thy Vrow, Dutch John— I'll strike 
 
 for mine." 
 
266 MELCHIOR. [part xxiv. 
 
 John. — " Het schynt myn meester wordt volslagen 
 
 gek." 
 Melchior. — " He calls me mad when I ape 
 
 sanity." 
 {To John). — " She comes — It is her hour — 
 
 Open to her." 
 John. — "Ik weet nu wat gy meent — J a ! J a ! 
 
 Hy is niet gek." 
 Melchior. — "Ah ! now he understands me. 
 
 / will live." 
 
PART XXV. 
 
 As steals the dawn into a fevered room, 
 And saith, " Be of good cheer, the day is born," 
 A light of hope stole into Melchior's heart. 
 Coy came it, timidly he welcomed it. 
 In all its strangerhood, with doubting tremors. 
 If 'twere indeed to him this dawn had come. 
 And if 'twould grow to morn, or fade away. 
 He was the guest who found the banquet dull, 
 And when he must begone into the night 
 C^me a bright company, which might have 
 
 joyed him. 
 And troubled his farewell. Ah, could he bide. 
 Live in each day for one grand golden year, 
 And think upon the hoard of days to come. 
 As if they made a Small eternity ! 
 
268 MELCHIOR. [part xxv. 
 
 For every day was full all round of love, 
 As is the rising moon of wildering light. 
 
 When sad and long farewells are gathering 
 Above our heads, in clouds of charged tears, 
 I hold them wise who talk on lightsome things. 
 Apparel bravely, set the cheek to cheer. 
 Fill not the eyes' quick gleamy cistern 
 With drops bedabbling hearty smiles of hope, 
 Hope feigned perchance, smiles bravely counter- 
 feit. 
 And, when the moment comes, one swift God- 
 speed. 
 'Tis lingering that burdens our farewells. 
 So hide griefs jewel'ry till thou be gone ; 
 Then wear it on thy cheek, and drench thy 
 
 pillow. 
 And let the labouring heart be quit of it. 
 This wisdom took the Geister-seer home. 
 And caught alesson from the glistening myriads — 
 The airy tumults of the summer midge, 
 The gleeful dance of epk^mdrides, 
 
PART XXV.] MELCHIOR. 269 
 
 Whose life is on the sunbeam of the hour, 
 Whose death is on yon cloud-rack trailing down. 
 He plucked each blossomed moment as it grew. 
 Life's carol drowneth death's slow passing bell, 
 And the babe's laughter drowns the mother's 
 
 sob. 
 Although the long farewell was in the air, 
 . Her presence it was life, a song, a rainbow, 
 A festival, a dreamy sort of heaven. 
 Let magic gather all joy's essences, 
 And beauty's witcheries of form, hue, sound 
 To make a blinding spell, enough to turn 
 A Golgotha into a Paradise, 
 Such was the spell that grew in Melchior's home 
 And caught him unawares. 
 Where she might be, the dankest forest dell 
 Methinks would azure into sheets of blue-bells ; 
 When she might speak, the dreariest winter wind 
 Would drop into flute notes to chime with her. 
 This woman threw around him tendrils closer 
 Than the great passion-flower tree that climbed 
 
270 MELCHIOR. [part xxv. 
 
 And , clung around the walls of his abode. 
 
 A ^little death of bliss did seem to hap 
 
 When she went out. Look what her hand had 
 
 touched, 1 
 
 Begot an envy, being favoured so ; 
 And what she gazed at took a preciousness. 
 A craving in his arms to clasp her close — 
 A hunger of her touch did seize on him, 
 'And fondness grew to love, and love to doting; 
 He touched the chalice in the hands of Passion. 
 He took this counsel, " I will fence me round 
 With a bright ring of all things beautiful. 
 And make a jubilee ! As in the forest. 
 Rampart of fire o' nights the hunter kindles, 
 To fright the moaning tiger into gloom. 
 This thought of death I'll scare with radiant life^' 
 And I will lull my senses in a spell, 
 Hoodwink the future with a glorious cloud. 
 And drown misgiving in a noon of light. 
 So shall I taste of bliss before I die." 
 
 An Ariel might have conjured up around 
 
PART XXV.] MELCHIOR. 271 
 
 The splendours of his home all fancy-teeming, 
 And strange as vision seen through antique 
 
 dream 
 Dreamt by an empress in an elder Age. 
 On the ascending shelves, blue arabesqued, 
 Aglow in brazen vessels richly scrolled, 
 Orchids and tropic flowers of sunrise red, 
 With a grey sheen ; and great weird bells were 
 
 there, 
 Blossoms of speckled satin ; saffron hue 
 Brindled with purple some, or dusted gold 
 Fine etched with velvet black; some steely blue; 
 Their polished leaves shone as unsheathed blades. 
 Rare Indian silks, shot with gold thread, fes- 
 tooned 
 The furniture, and on the wa.xhd parquet, 
 Made faint reflection as on glassy lake. 
 
 In vast translucent globes of crystal, poised. 
 With gilded eye and mail of fairy red 
 Of splendid gleam and spangle, wavering fish ; 
 In reveries of opal and of silver. 
 
272 MELCHIOR. [part xxv. 
 
 Or grey as beryl, others lay becalmed. 
 Twin sphinxes with their sly and sleepy smiles, 
 Voluptuous-lipped and bosomed, kept the door, 
 Fashioned from olive marble ; fateful crouch, 
 And taloned griffes had they, and seemed to 
 
 watch. 
 Around the chamber, statues terminal 
 Of Dryads and of Fauns laughed silently ; 
 And in a marble fount that bathed the scales 
 Of wanton wreathing mermaids, coral-crowned. 
 Two little snowy sea-fowls dived and swam, 
 And left a trail of diamonds in their wake, 
 Winging beneath the water crystalline. 
 Where, sown with rainbow hue, were ocean shells. 
 Large, wondrous, golden fire and emerald dream. 
 
 Sometimes in silences there stole a sound 
 You guessed not whence, — so tender, sweet, and 
 
 fine. 
 It seemed as if some flower began to sing. 
 And from without arose the plaintive cooings 
 Of tiny doves the tint of lavender. 
 
PART XXV.] MELCHIOR. 273 
 
 But when the day was done, a candelabra, 
 Lustred with Venice glass, prismatic, branching, 
 Starry with tinted candles, filled the scene 
 With soft, capricious, palpitating light, 
 And shed dim glimmers on the glossy ivy, 
 Small fitful shadows like a dance of elves. 
 
 The air was perfumed with the cedar embers 
 That fed the stove — as incense of a temple 
 That lingered yet to some departed god. 
 
 In Court attire, the tawny Mechlin lace 
 On wrist and bosom, Melchior was clad ; 
 And tAe cut steel on shoon and lapelled coat 
 Sparkled like diamond clusters, crisply brilliant. 
 And to his mood was Blanca apt and zealous 
 To please him; coifed with lace her golden 
 hair, 
 " And on her breast she wore a silver brooch 
 Wrought in antique relief — a precious heir- 
 loom — 
 Our Lady Mother and the Holy Infant. 
 Delicate viands, bright wine of Moselle, 
 
274 MELCHlOR. [part xxv. 
 
 Crystal and silver, flowers and luscious fruits, 
 Coned pine-apples, and thick and musky grapes. 
 The bloomM peach, the fluted yellow melon. 
 Ask not how time doth pass with those who 
 
 love, 
 When but to be, to gaze, to think, to "touch, 
 The harp-strings are of Loye — its history 
 Unwritten and unspoken, evermore. 
 And if he read aloud, or music woke. 
 Or sauntered by her side among the flowers, 
 Listening with lowered head to her discourse. 
 Tempting her talk, searching on memory's 
 
 strand 
 For shell or pebble of his early days. 
 Adventure, tale, or touch of character 
 To interest for the moment, catch the smile. 
 And then be cast aside for something new, 
 It was the same enchantment, the white heat ' 
 Of feeling, exquisitely still and deep. 
 In >all there was a shade of funeral splendour. 
 The festival that endeth in the pyre, 
 
PART XXV.] MEtCHIOR. 275 
 
 The brightness of the ephemh'ides. 
 
 As if the season were in league with him, 
 
 And caught his mood, October took the glory 
 
 Of middle June, and sent him day on day 
 
 Without a cloud, in all the pomp of blue. 
 
 The birds took heart, and thought the spring 
 
 was come, 
 And little masons fluttered up with straws 
 As if they caught his mood. Such summer 
 
 time 
 Had been enough to tempt the swallows back 
 Along their breezy highways southerward. 
 But, like a circling bat, that thought of death, 
 Swept sometimes nigh and sometimes skimmed 
 
 afar ; 
 And Blanca heard it in the saddened tone. 
 Or saw it in the shadows of his eyes ; 
 And then she touched his arm, and smiling 
 
 pointed, 
 " The sunshine rests upon yon empty tomb 
 In dazzling patch, like golden crown of glory 
 
276 MELCHfOR. [part xxv. 
 
 That smiles at bodings. Be not thou the 
 
 actor, 
 Who, when the tragedy is done, still drones 
 And glares among the revellers. Take thou 
 
 heart."' 
 In Melchior a lambent thought arose, 
 First like the dawn that heralds in the moon, 
 Then like the thread of fire, then broad white 
 
 brow 
 Of radiancy, then risen Titan orb. 
 Possessed, inspired, and giddy with that thought. 
 He led his Liebchen 'neath the passion flowers. 
 Into the garden : by her side he paced 
 Once round the lily ranks, then stood and 
 
 fronted 
 His leaf-clad home. As caught by lightsome 
 
 whim, 
 He pointed to it, circling with his arm 
 Her lithesome waist ; but as he spoke, his tone 
 Gathered in seriousness, at length it shook. 
 " Within my home there is a treasure-trove ; 
 
PART XXV.] MELCHIOR. 277 
 
 Seest thou its gleams through lattice and 
 
 through roof? 
 And as the dull-eyed folk go listless by, 
 I marvel at their apathy of blindness. 
 When / wend homewards it is there I know, 
 And the plain truth shines like a faiiy tale. 
 How such a rare companion came to me, 
 And moved around and daily welcomed me, 
 Is sweetest marvel. Canst thou he the same 
 I carried senseless to yon convent portal ? 
 Since then some other wanderer hath come, 
 Or formed in air, or else was ever with me. 
 Whom I call Liebchen." Blanca brightly 
 
 smiled. 
 Her voice was shaken, yet the smile was there, 
 Like sunshine in a storm. And he spake on — 
 " Glean all the happy days on life's grey stubble. 
 And bind them — would they measure one glad 
 
 month ? 
 But such a length of perfect days is mine. 
 And all the dusty dulness winnowed out ; 
 
578 MELCHIOR. [part xxv. 
 
 Share it with me — this last, this blossomed 
 
 month " — 
 He took her hand, and set his gaze on her — 
 " But not as one who hath no part or share. 
 Stand thou within the circle of my days 
 As one with me, that when I go from hence 
 That circle may protect and shelter thee ; 
 For I would make this roof thy lifelong refuge. 
 And stariip thy claim. Liebchen, may I to- 
 morrow 
 Give thee the name of wife ?" Without a word, 
 And white as lily leaf, swooning she fell. 
 
PART XXVI. 
 
 A FLITTING memory of the drowning face 
 G^ve him a pang. He lifted her again — 
 Her heart was beating mournfully. Her lips 
 Were close to his. If he should forfeit then 
 Heaven's crown, he could not hold love's 
 
 famished kiss 
 From dropping on those petals parted pale ; 
 That kiss seemed as the key to ope her eye- 
 lids— 
 They opened with a blank bewildered gaze. 
 Then memory came back — she shunned his 
 
 eye. 
 He waited by her side, his heart beat wildly ; 
 His hand was locked in hers, but in his thoughts 
 There was a panic. Had his words come back. 
 
28o : MELCHIOR. [part xxvi. 
 
 For she was mute, abashed, and weeping-ripe. 
 Again he spoke in low and suasive love — 
 "Liebchen, may I to-morrow call thee wife?" 
 She snatched her hand from his and hid her 
 
 face ; 
 Convulsively the passion of her tears , 
 
 Shook neck and shoulders, and she faltered out. 
 
 With anguished emphasis — " Oh, no ! no ! no !" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The charm was shivered. Bright and sinister 
 
 Its glitter — now a cold and rayless heap. 
 
 She came, and yet she almost shrank from him. 
 
 And only strove to be the same ; and he 
 
 Oft' times began to speak, and, wandering, paused. 
 
 He fixed on her long and desponding gazes. 
 
 That " No ! no ! no !" was as Fate's triple veto — 
 
 Each syllable a sword-smite at the ties 
 
 That linked them heart to heart. Hope sobbed 
 
 and died. 
 Came rumours to his ears of mongered scandal ; 
 Hard things of her — the buzz of gathering insult. 
 
PART XXVI.] MELCHIOR. 281 
 
 Love changed into a scorpion — always love, 
 But venomed with regrets^ — misgivings — ruth, 
 That stung by turns. And doubt unfurled her 
 
 cloud 
 Between him and the sun ; yet still he doted. 
 He sought the priest — to him unburdened 
 
 all— 
 And sternly came the sentence, " Put her forth ! 
 The sacrifice which loppeth the right hand 
 For God's sake and for Duty is heaven-worthy ; 
 Such pangs that cleave the heart make thee 
 
 akin 
 To blessed saints and martyrs — rounds to 
 
 heaven, 
 And precious as the tears on Jesu's cheek." 
 
 " I cannot speak the word to her — do thou. 
 The wretched task be thine, but — tenderly',! 
 Said Melchior, " thou dost not lop the limb, 
 Thou tearest out my heart — Oh ! be thou gentle!' 
 
PART XXVII. 
 
 "Where goest thou, daughter?" gently said 
 
 the priest, 
 And Blanca stood against the straggling roses, 
 Grouped as young cherubs' heads — Her shadow 
 
 fell 
 Faintly, and mingled with his soutan's shadow. 
 The sky was as a tent of satin white, 
 With some wild rifts of blue — profoundest 
 
 blue ; 
 And on its heavy wings the heron fled 
 An hundred paces, and then lit again 
 By the white marbly waters of the Rhine. 
 ' I know not," she replied, and dropt her eyes. 
 "So comes the end of the good errand, 
 
 daughter : 
 
PART XXVII.] MELCHIOR. 283 
 
 Two lives made blank — two bleeding wounds 
 
 unstaunched — 
 Our blessed Lady comfort thee. Yon house 
 Is shut to thee ; for thou hast reached the line 
 Beyond which but another step is sin." 
 
 " And hath he bade thee tell my doom to 
 
 me?" 
 " He sought me, daughter — 'tis his love's 
 
 outcome 
 To thee — and of his duty to his God 
 That from this snare he flies— this devil's pit 
 Dug behind dead-sea fruit and siren music. 
 In friendship's simple soil 'twixt man and maid, 
 Hell's Sower casts the fatal seed of Passion ; ' 
 What once was innocent^ now ripes to sin. 
 Daughter, I have not pried into thy past ; 
 And thou knowest best — his home is shut to 
 
 thee." 
 " I will not — " she began — but her mouth 
 
 worked, 
 " I will not go," she faltered, and she ended 
 
'284 MELCHIOR. [part xxvii. 
 
 With one great tearless sob ; her face she leaned 
 Against the thorny bushes — ^the pink petals 
 Fell in a shower, as if the roses wept. 
 He left her there, for sorrow such as hers 
 Must not, he knew, be taken at the surge. 
 But when, the first wild vehemence be spent. 
 Slowly, at last, she turned and stood despairing. 
 Upon her forehead was the stain of blood. 
 Where the thorns pierced. She broke into this 
 
 wail, — 
 And a quick shower came glittering down on 
 
 her — 
 The clouds of heaven did weep, yet could not 
 
 she. 
 " My use is gone, my days are aimless now. 
 Was it for this he gave back life to me. 
 When all was o'er, broken the body's bonds ? 
 Now shall 1 wake each morn in haste, from 
 
 dreams 
 Full of some purpose, and arise in zeal i 
 To find there's nothing save the idle ache — , 
 
PARTXXVii.] MELCHIOR. 285 
 
 For all the livelong day the idle ache 
 And anguish at the look of yonder limes. 
 I must content me to hear wafts of news, 
 And watch with sharp suspense strange lips 
 
 that tell it, 
 And make my sad content with meagre guesses. 
 I, who owned all his heart, even as a book, 
 To read his silent wish, his secret thought ! 
 They'll tell me haply he is lonely — mad, 
 And I must listen and know nothing sure, 
 But watch aloof, and never speak with him. 
 As some wild wave round a beleaguered isle. 
 Idly 'embraces it with tearful spray. 
 And in its vain and fainting strife to save, 
 It can but moan and break upon its strand." 
 
PART XXVIII. 
 
 Blanca was gone— ^saddest in all the day 
 The hour when she was wont to stand without, 
 And still he caught himself intently listening 
 For coming steps, alas, that never came. 
 The ghastly splendour of his chamber crushed 
 him, ' 
 
 So empty was it of that pretty one ; 
 And he would close his eyes in passing through. 
 A glove she had forgotten grew a treasure, 
 The calyx which had slipped its lily flower, 
 He put it in his bosom — took it forth. 
 Kissed it, and placed it, at his heart again. 
 And there lay on the seat a withered flower 
 Thalt had on it a memory of her hand, 
 He placed it in a vase to gaze on it, 
 
PART XXVIII.] , MELCHIOR. 287 
 
 With a sad fancy for her sake it withered. 
 
 On the damp earth an impress of her foot, 
 
 A print of coming foot — a mockery, 
 
 But for the world he could not have effaced it. 
 
 That little symbol of fidelity. 
 
 He could not bear to wake the music now. 
 
 It seemed to give a voice to loneliness, 
 
 And every act and word of hers remembered. 
 
 Love dowered with a double preciousness, , 
 
 A saddened beauty, and a moist regret: 
 
 The longings came and gnawed the heavy heart ; 
 
 He looked out on the world as a sick, dream. 
 
 His old Relights decayed and dropt away. 
 
 Then Passion, with warm whisper, plucked his 
 
 sleeve — 
 " Dupe of a bigot homily, how long 
 Wilt thou submit to perverse sacrifice. 
 Thou hunted trampled wretch — what haSt thou 
 
 done? 
 Here was a joy enshrined, where is it now ? 
 Beauty was here, and-^-oh ! thou fool, thou fool I 
 
288 MELCHIOR. [part xxviii. 
 
 And love was here. Get thou a grinning 
 
 skull, 
 ,Get thou a shirt of hair, a knotted scourge, 
 With wanton penance mortify the flesh ; 
 Aye — spy out sin in nature's truest craving, 
 And start at every stirring of the blood. 
 Shame! thou hast loosed the swine into thy 
 
 garden, 
 Where every blossom might have blown in 
 
 heaven." 
 " But she is near," he thought. " It is not 
 
 late. 
 May I not see her — daily commune with her, 
 And yet not sin. May I not go -to her, 
 As I might rise betimes in summer morns 
 To joy me in the dewy miracle , 
 Of the large red sunrise." 
 As though a coil had eased its festering cling 
 Around his heart, into the day stepped he, 
 And to the garden porch — The tear-stained 
 
 face 
 
PART XXVIII.] MELCHIOR. 289 
 
 bf Ursula, in scared and weazen woe, 
 Met him, and gazed upon him piteously — 
 Eye of the bearer of some heavy news, 
 Confronted by an eye of innocent joy — 
 Look lingering, ere the tongue should do a 
 
 murder 
 Upon that doomed and unsuspecting bliss. 
 Then on his arm there fell a trembling touch, 
 And there behiiid him stood a shaken man — 
 The gentle priest, how changed, how wan was he. 
 He spoke of the presumption of old men. 
 Who sometimes play the oracle for God, 
 And with dry text blight youth's . brief holiday 
 When all was innocent^ — and call this. Duty. 
 Cried Melchior, hotly — "What dost thou con- 
 ceal? 
 Thy faltering words come on me witheringly." 
 To sudden gentleness he changed his voice — 
 A supplicating key — as if he hoped 
 The priest for pity of him might transform 
 
 Some sorrow into hope and peacefulness. 
 u 
 
290 MELCHIOR. [part xxviii. 
 
 His brown thin hand slowly the priest upraised, 
 And pointed to the Rhine — " Blanca is gone. 
 A woman's scarf — 'twas hers — lay on the bank, 
 Draggled with rain ; upon her open missal 
 There lay one written wretched word, ' Fare- 
 well,'— 
 Blanca is gone." 
 
PART XXIX. 
 
 ■ 
 
 A MORTAL wound is painless on the flush 
 And speed of stroke ; the patient life-blood 
 
 wastes ; 
 The stricken one, bewildered, scarcely knows 
 He has his death. Then comes the festering 
 
 chill, 
 And then, tense swollen pang, and wakeful fever. 
 And all the troublous knowledge of his doom. 
 
 " I will go seek my dead unto its burial, 
 My well-beloved dead I live to find." 
 With jealous secrecy away he stole, 
 Unmoored his boat, and, on the central tide:, 
 Began his melancholy, aimless quest. 
 It was a brooding day, the tawny flood \ 
 Of Rhine went writhing on without a sound. 
 
292 MELCHIOR. [part xxix. 
 
 And soon the craggy banks lay grim along, 
 
 And solitary, neither life nor death, 
 
 Save ever rising and alighting onward 
 
 A fishing cormorant with rigid neck. , 
 
 He knew there comes a melancholy moment, 
 
 When on its couch of weeds the drowned one 
 
 stirs. 
 And rises like a soul called up to judgment, 
 To float its course ere it shall hide for ever. 
 He sat and sought, and watched with blinkless 
 
 vigil, 
 Just living in this last heart-numbing duty, 
 And on his lonely death-chase ever glided. 
 Watching, still watching, and pale clouds 
 
 watched with him. 
 And in his quest did join the moon and stars, 
 The babe-eyed anxious stars peeped everywhere 
 For' the green kirtle and dead-yellow hair. 
 The fishers loitered on the bank to wonder, 
 So haggard-lone his grief ; so wild his question. 
 Had any seen his dead ? He bribed their zeal — 
 
PART XXIX.] MELCHIOR. 293 
 
 The finny silver in their bursting nets 
 Would not repay so full as that sad find. 
 But none had seen it. Cowered back a child 
 Behind its mother, lest perchance 'twould see 
 The lady lifeless in her yellow hair 
 Float by below, or that blenched man might 
 
 call, 
 An awesome voice might chill it to the heart. 
 By night, on either side he scanned the shore. 
 As if he hoped to see her lonely wraith 
 Flit with the boat> or on a crag erect, 
 Guide him with sloping arm to that he sought 
 Until the dawn rose in bleak vacancy. 
 And on the yellow flood that swept and swirled. 
 Nothing but he — chilled, famished, and alone. 
 Then home came Melchior — the hope, the duty 
 Which buoyed him, fell away, and rudderless 
 Drifted the foundering vessel of his life. 
 
PART XXX; 
 
 Then madness muttered to him, "Thou art 
 
 mine ; 
 I am thy nursing mother, thou hast sucked 
 My demon milk^ — thy visions were my toys. 
 Note thine own mind — hath not its b^,lance 
 
 gone ? 
 Slave to an impulse, creature of a whim. 
 Restless, and warped from every dear pursuit, 
 Have not thy friends long looked on thee 
 
 askance? 
 Whom thou hast .loved I'll warp thee to 
 
 abhor. 
 And lodge foul goblin fancies in the chambers . 
 Of mind once home of purity and prayer — 
 Why didst thou laugh last night in thy despair ? 
 
PART XXX.] MELCHIOR. 295 
 
 Was it not strange ?" " Ok Gott in Himmel 
 
 droben ! 
 Cloud not my mind. Oh, keep my reason clear ! " 
 As clings a child with panic-stiffened arms 
 Around its mother, should some hideous mummer 
 Grin in its face to fright it, Melchior clung 
 To common life awhile — to healthy life. 
 He sometimes talked with strangers fitfully, 
 In fear lest he should mutter to himself. 
 Among the haunts of men he forced himself — 
 Shy and abrupt — suspicious if they stared.. 
 Once in the tavern did he show himself, 
 And drank deep draughts of Rhenish, and 
 
 talked high — ■ 
 Then, with convulsive shame, abruptly went. 
 And madness muttered — " Knowest thou thyself? 
 Thy friends and neighbours scarcely know thee 
 
 now." 
 Sometimes at daw;n he rose from sleep in haste : 
 " Something to do — up ! up ! or thou'lt be late ;" 
 And voices in the hall called " Melchior " ; 
 
296 MELCHIOR. [part xxx. 
 
 But when he stood in the chill, early wind, 
 He asked himself — " What now ? Fool, there 
 is naught." ' 
 
 He'd grip his hands, and stride around the garden, 
 Resolved to drive the terror from his mind, 
 Humming some sacred music fervently. 
 Or murmuring prayers with gesture and with 
 
 sigh. 
 Till a whim seized him on a rainy morn. 
 An impulse without purpose. Suddenly, 
 While gazing at the drooping lily ranks 
 All sprent with rainy tears, he drew his sword. 
 And, severing each flower above the root 
 With furious stroke, he laid them in green swathe 
 Along the bed. Straight all passed from his 
 
 mind. 
 And when he met Dutch John, who watched 
 
 him, gaping. 
 And asked him what he did — ^told him his deed. 
 He trembled with misgiving ; madness mut- 
 tered — ' 
 
PART XXX.] MELCHIOR. 297 
 
 " So may'st thou kill the thing thou dotest on ; 
 
 The ghastly innocence with gory hands 
 
 That kills, it knows not why, guiltless and 
 
 gliastly." 
 Again at night the spectral visions came. 
 But changed to horror. Messalina foul. 
 Gross-limbed, did shame the night with obscene 
 
 prgie, 
 And Lais crouched in venal fairness near. 
 Smiling, and reaching out her siren hands. 
 Tiberius came, his bald scorbutic head 
 Towering above his dancing Cyprians ; 
 And Nero, rose-crowned, leaning on a youth. 
 Like dreams they came — like hot and poisoned 
 
 dreams — 
 To desecrate his night, and leave a slime 
 Of memory upon each phantom day. 
 A child stood at his knee, Dutch, John's small 
 
 image, 
 And stretched to him the pistol, Wolfgang's 
 
 gift, 
 
298 MELCHIOR. [part xxx. 
 
 And lisped, the father said 'twas dangerous — 
 " Geladen is't pistool" — that it was loaded. 
 And madness muttered, " But a finger touch 
 And all is past. For what remains to thee. 
 To-day thou may'st endure, but then-^to-morrow 
 Must be lived out, and over its bleak shoulder 
 Are other pale to-morrows all grief-laden." 
 He put the loaded weapon in his breast. 
 
PART XXXI. 
 
 Said Wolfgang — " 'Tis the best philosophy, 
 When we have lost a thing we hold most 
 
 dear, 
 To call to mind its faults — depreciate — 
 And reason thus : My pretty vase is broken ; 
 But it was always flawed — mere ornament. 
 Its varnish and its hue were imitation, 
 Or might have been ; and there be other vases 
 Of finer' form. My loss is not so sad." 
 Then all the petty random evidence. 
 Suspicion and conjecture against her, 
 He spawned into the ear of Melchior. 
 I will not stain my page by such a record 
 Against this woman— rarest one of all. 
 
 " Steal not the perfume from her memory ; 
 
300 MELCHIOR. [part xxxi. 
 
 Degrade not my regrets. Thou would'st un- 
 
 hallow 
 My tears when I would sanctify my loss. 
 Why, with a cold conjectural scrutiny 
 In love's own garden, thou play'st scavenger, 
 To tell me worms do stir beneath the blooms. 
 If I should find a broken spray of pearls 
 Wilt tell me that the other half was glass ? 
 That which she was to me is all I know. 
 What I have loved and lost shall be remembered, 
 Not by its shadow, but its tender light. 
 I loathe that craven selfish consolation 
 Which would debase bereavement, pry for flaws. 
 And sift the sacred dust of the beloved. 
 I would not bate a pang of all the moan, 
 Most sacred, due to this my endless sorrow, 
 To wake and find my heart a smiling void." 
 " Grieve, since thou must," said loving old 
 Hirschvogel, 
 " But put not on the sackcloth and the ashes. 
 Call to thine aid serene philosophy; 
 
PART XXXI.] MELCHIOR. 301 
 
 Reason extracts from sorrow half its sting. 
 Say ever to thyself, 'This is for good.'" 
 In a great despond, answered Melchior — 
 " How vain,, philosophy, with chilling truth. 
 Though thou should'st nail the weather-vane to 
 
 South, 
 Thou canst not change the wind that's blowing 
 North." 
 " Thine hair is wild, thy neck is bare, thine 
 home 
 Teems with affliction, here thou mayest go mad. 
 Become my pupil — ^play with lamp and blow- 
 pipe, 
 Retort and furnace — learn the parts component 
 In this our mortal frame. Away with spectres ! 
 And thou shall taste my Rhenish in green glass, 
 And wander through my tooks, not all grave 
 
 science, 
 I'll warrant thee a vagabond amongst them 
 Will make thee smile. Come ; thou shalt come 
 forthwith." 
 
302 MfeLCHIOR. [part xxxi. 
 
 Then Melchior stood before him piteously : 
 " Look in my face, Hirschvogel, thou art skilled, 
 Canst thou trace madness in its lineaments?" 
 
 " Madness ? — a foolish fancy — not a trace. 
 The evening air is fresh ; thy hat and cane ! 
 I'll warrant thee a sounder brain than mine." 
 He drew him forth, and. thus he softly twaddled : 
 "Work-a-day folk may call the mystic mad. 
 Yet who may say, -and who may fix the bourne 
 Where science blends in airy spirit-lore ? 
 For there the wise are mad,.the mad are wise. 
 The cloud-rolled burden of the Hebrew prophet. 
 The frantic soothsay of the antique sibyl. 
 The Buddhist trancing ever to Nirvana, 
 In lifelong reverie on Buddha bland — r 
 There you see wisdom on the wing of frenzy. 
 Let others mock, I stand aside and heed. 
 Now in your visionary gifts — " 
 
 " Ok Gott in Himmel droben ! guard my 
 mind, 
 Let me not come into Thy presence mad." 
 
PART XXXI.] MELCHIOR. 303 
 
 And Melchior brushed an agitated hand 
 Across his forehead, as he would have swept 
 Some gathering obscurity away. 
 Hirschvogel listened, and he diagnosed, 
 Scanning him, naked-eyed, above the rim 
 Of spectacle, his chin upon his breast ; 
 Now, drawing back his neck for scrutiny 
 Of longer range, transfixed him through bright 
 
 glasses. 
 And he talked coaxingly as nurse to child. 
 Humouring his mood, compounding sentences 
 In mental mortar. Melchior scarcely heard. 
 And with his supple tread moved vaguely on. ^ 
 " Thou see'st where we are going, Melchior ; 
 Now have we left Cecilia's church behind. 
 Within my mind thou hast embodied her 
 In music. Aye, this moment she ariseth ! " 
 In thin falsetto, and with timing hand. 
 The evening glinting on cornelian ring, 
 He hummed a passage from the Pan-pipe's air, 
 And, failing that, to whistle it- essayed, 
 
304 MELCHIOR. [part xxxi. 
 
 Then hummed again upon a lower key, 
 
 Clearing his throat at every false accord, 
 
 His smile and flourish growing towards the 
 
 close. 
 Lost upon Melchior was the flattery. 
 And, like an ache which troubles one in sleep, 
 The false notes twinged his sense so exquisite. 
 Hirschvogel drew him on, he yielded him, 
 And drifted vaguely whither he was led ; 
 And now they stood within the castle hall. 
 
PART XXXII. 
 
 Now in the castle hall and up the staifs 
 Of foot-worn marble, filling every chamber, 
 And circling all around in sonorous waves, 
 Pealeth the gilded organ 'neath the hands 
 Of Melchior — breeding sound with tremulous 
 
 touch. 
 Hirschvogel stood erect and vigilant^ 
 With leaning head and gently tiriiing hand,- 
 As Melchior, drifting with his friend's persuasion; 
 Coldly beginning St. Cecilia's strains, 
 Caught the old fire, and woke his masterpiece — - 
 
 S)t* Cecilia* 
 
 Hark to the Pan-pipes ! Young Valerian's lay. 
 
 Wild wood-born trills, and beat of cloven hoofs, 
 X 
 
3o6 MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 And undertones of Cecile's reverie. 
 
 And, now again, the sweet mad Pan^pipe^ 
 
 conquer, 
 And uncouth beating of the Satyrs' dance. 
 With nestling sunny notes of summer air. 
 Now holy chords of plumed grandeur grow 
 To music tumults, and a solemn pause 
 Foreshadows coming softness. Now like down 
 Descending came, in plaintive majesty, 
 Cecilia's hymn — the holy organ hymn. 
 A twilight tenderness, a Sabbath rest 
 Filled every cadence — breathings of the skies. 
 And then came little shudderings of wings, 
 And the low trebles, running clear and fine. 
 
 As from the rounded rose-lips of the cherubs. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The low persuasive love-notes of the Saint, 
 Winning to Christ the souls of her beloved — 
 A patient pleading — an exalted fire — 
 A passion of entreaty — a low prayer. 
 
PART XXXII.] MELCHIOR. 307 
 
 The wedding chorus of young Christian maids, 
 Fraught with fresh gladness, and bright flowers 
 
 of song ; 
 The martyr-bishop's trembling benediction. 
 
 As burthened with some mournful prophecy. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Hollow cavernous sound and funeral wail. 
 Scaring the echoes of the Catacombs ; 
 And then a melody of steadfast faith — 
 Piercing, the roar of raging persecution 
 
 With calm divine — the psalm of martyrdom. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The opening of the gates of Paradise 
 Upon the shining mansions of the blest ; 
 The peal of welcome from the martyrs' army. 
 Those white-robed witnesses of Christ on earth ; 
 The transport - meeting with her martyred 
 
 spouse ! 
 The distant ring bf harps and hymning angels ; 
 The loving voice of Mary, Queen of Heaven, 
 The smile of the Assumption on her lip 
 
3o8 MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 (So seemed it in the music — holy-bright), 
 Blessing the Saint Cecilia's birth in heaven ; 
 And the Man-God, who knoweth pain and care, 
 And tears, spoke forth the great — the tender 
 
 greeting, ' 
 
 " Well done, thou good and faithful servant, 
 
 enter 
 
 Into my joy." This was the' soundful close. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Now up the organ pipes, shimmered and crept, 
 Through twilight gloom, a pallid silvery light. 
 Hirschvogel, fascinated, as it seemed, 
 By music charm, still stood with hand upraised ; 
 But Melchior, in agitation, rose. 
 Not twenty paces back, upon the marble 
 Which faintly doubled it, a gleaming figure 
 Stood motionless — each moment kindling up ; 
 Its outlines tremble — as a glow-worm shines. 
 So glimmered face and hair — most beautiful 
 And wan the features. Round the cloudy hair 
 Was twined a wreath of roses, white and red, 
 
PART XXXII.] MELCHIOR. 309 
 
 And, in broad slanting beam, the stola shone. 
 " At last — at last she doth vouchsafe her 
 prfesence," 
 With awe -hushed broken voice, gasped Mel- 
 
 chior — 
 " She comes to make my spirit for release ; 
 To light again the fervours that had fainted. 
 Let me take breath and test this miracle 
 Of loveliness. She will not look on me ; 
 Mayhap her gaze would make my senses, reel," 
 "What dost thou stare at, friend?" said 
 Hirschvogel ; 
 "Why dost thou mutter to the empty air?" 
 
 " It is so nameless sweet, I grow a coward ; 
 Lest 'tis too sweet to bei Deep music, listen ! " 
 " Here all is silent, Melchior, save our tongues." 
 "Dost thou not — oh; bear witness. Why, 
 her lustre 
 Is floating on thy face — I've lived ta see it !" 
 " There's nothing living here, save thee and 
 me." 
 
3IO MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 " Oh ! this is what the blessed saints have 
 
 heard, 
 When loving fingers closed their mortal eyes, 
 And opening the soul's eyes — Hark ! heaven's 
 
 oyn music. 
 Turn to me ! Look on me ! Thy gaze oh me. 
 Though it may blind, will be complete content. 
 Be mindful of' my presence — show me now 
 That thou hadst cognisance of my long service, 
 And sometimes crossed my path at holy eve. 
 Call it not impious — I have cherished here 
 Pure, chastened, but unutterable love ; < 
 My soul — ah ! Avhat say I ? for thou hast grown 
 The very soul within me. Turn to me ! 
 One look, and I shall live for aye in darkness,' 
 To muse on the delicious light of it. 
 Speak not, but look on me, and that one look. 
 That one remembrance, shall be memory. 
 And memory be a star. Still nearer, nearer. 
 As the earth meets the sun, so my glad soul 
 Turns a bright hemisphere to fhy approach." 
 
PART XXXII.] MELCHIOR. 311 
 
 A woman's faltering voice said, " I am Blanca." 
 
 She cast the twined roses at her feet, 
 I 
 And the white stola plucked she from her form. 
 
 She stood before him — BJanca — downcast, 
 
 white. , 
 
 Cried Hirschvogel, with a triumphant smile, 
 
 " Thy worship 'wastes in air — it hath no idol — 
 
 It is a gem upon a corpse's hand, 
 
 Deckiilg the dust, ' Here is no Saint Cecilia. 
 
 This is a woman worthy higher homage, 
 
 For this fond daring — this supreme devotion — - 
 
 Than rhapsodies to antique saints could pay. 
 
 She counters with an innocent deceit, 
 
 Illusions morbid that unhinge the mind, 
 
 And conjures from thy brain its haunting demon." 
 
 The woman faltered, " Knowest thou not 
 
 Blanca?" 
 
 Hirschvogel led her near, her head downcast. 
 
 "Take pity — nay, behold her trembling smile 
 
 That hovers near a sob — she waits for thee 
 
 To speak her pardon for a part she hated, 
 
312 MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 But' for thy sake hath played. She doffs the 
 
 weeds 
 Of saintship, by my counsel she assumed ; 
 My chemic radiance now hath died away." 
 Silent, and seeming deaf, stood Melchior, 
 Uncanny wildness in his staring eyes. 
 Hirschvogel kept on Blanca his kind gaze — 
 " Under my roof she sheltered many days. 
 And now she comes to say a long, farewell, 
 Since never more her steps or voice can bide 
 About thy home. Through me she would 
 
 implore 
 That thou wouldst pardon her this guile of love. 
 To-morrow, in a, convent at Cologne, 
 She hides her from a cold and slanderous world. 
 Under my counsel, for thy life and welfare. 
 Hath she done this, that her last worldly deed 
 Should be for thee. 'Now look thy last on her. 
 Sad is her parting, but for this she joys — 
 Sadness is not in peril to become 
 Regret or sorrow, but, like peace from prayer. 
 
PART XXXII.] MELCHIOR. ' 313 
 
 The memory of this good will follow her." 
 He turned on Melchior scrutinising gaze — 
 " Thus she dissolves thy visionary saint, 
 And proves how vain is thine idolatry." 
 Then madness muttered, " 'Tis a lying fiend ; 
 It lies with semblance of the lips thou lovest ;' 
 Its beauty is the bait of hell to mock thee, 
 And forge on thy affectiops by a semblance. 
 It is a fiend !" 
 
 'Ah ! on the jungle strikes the shadow now, 
 The gleaming eyes, the carnage on the jaw! 
 Some one had brought the lights — they fell on 
 him ; 
 
 It seemed a demon entered at his eyes , 
 
 1 
 
 That fixed on her with such a dreadful glare ; 
 Those eyes seemed ringed with a demoniac light ; 
 His voice hissed through clenched teeth — 'twas 
 ■. not kis voice. 
 
 Bare was his neck — the veins were knotted blue : 
 His figure rigid, as if catalepsed ; 
 His hair, unkempt from grief, was like a mane 
 
314 MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 Of savage lion, bristling up at bay. 
 
 Livid his face, and worked to furious spasm. 
 
 As flame upon a hill that blasts the verdure 
 
 To scorched black, so madness worked on him. 
 
 All that was gentle then, now, haggard-mad. 
 
 He gestured with his two extended hands, 
 
 As he would speak — there came a gibbering 
 
 voice. 
 As though he felt a stifling in his bosom. 
 He thrust his hand within and touched the 
 
 ' weapon. 
 He snatched it forth and fired. Mutely she fell. 
 " What hast thou done ? oh, madman !" cried 
 
 Hirschvogel ! 
 Moaning, he . knelt him down to staunch the 
 
 wound. 
 From Melchior's grasp the fatal weapon fell, / 
 And clanged upon the marble. From his face 
 Vanished the frenzy — piteous gentleness 
 In bis bewildered and imploring eyes. 
 " What is it, sirs ? Why do you stare at me ? 
 
PART XXXII.] MELCHIOR. 315 
 
 What hath befallen ? What rollof smoke doth 
 
 rise? 
 And what is she who lieth piteous, there?" 
 He clutched his beaded forehead in his hands 
 A moment, then he staggered to the spot 
 Where Blanca lifted to him gentlest gaze. 
 "Well weened I, Ritter, I should die before 
 
 thee ;" 
 She faltered, feebly pushing back her hair, 
 " My life thou didst restore, and fostered it, 
 
 And by mischance thou hast it back again. 
 
 * * *. * 
 
 I did not fear thee, for I loved too much. 
 And knew it was not thou that frowned on me. 
 There is no death I could have courted so, 
 As by this innocent mischance of thine. 
 There is no blame to thee, beloved Ritter." 
 Still in fond playfulness she called him so. 
 Smiling in death, to soften and to solace. 
 " And, had I lived, a life in convent cell 
 Had been my lot — for ever parted from thee. ,. 
 
3i6 MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 Now, if it be permitted — hark tq me — 
 
 That souls should visit those they Ibved on 
 
 earth, 
 To-night I will come back, and thou shalt see 
 
 me ; 
 So grieve not " — came a little fainting smile — 
 " Grieve not for me, think me a cagM bird, 
 And that thy noble hand hath ope'd the door. 
 And set me free." She gasped and smiled 
 
 again, 
 " And, at thy death, beside thee shall I stand, 
 And, like two birds, we'll fly away together." 
 She would have faltered on, but died the voice. 
 Back sunk the lovely head, back streamed the 
 
 torrent 
 Of sunny hair — she did not say farewell. ' 
 The roses white and red, are now all red. 
 Hirsbhvogel laid a hand upon her heart. 
 That woman's matchless heart — it beat no more. 
 Then over Melchior a bleakness swept. 
 Of grief, of anguish comfortless. He knelt, 
 
PART XXXII.] MELCHIOR. 317 
 
 And, with an agony of tears and kisses 
 Upon her forehead, took his l?ist farewell, 
 Then stood erect in dignified despair. 
 " Why hast thou stolen from my soul her 
 
 faith ; 
 Her sweetest solace turned to mockery; 
 Debased to masquerade, her sacred creed ? ' 
 What hast thou left me now but dust and 
 
 death, 
 And this poor efifigy of her — my joy ? 
 That faith which thou hast stolen harmed not 
 
 thee ; 
 Thou couldst not give it, never can restore, 
 Nor canst bring back that voice now lost to 
 
 me. 
 All here is black within — all dust and ashes-— 
 We are blind lanthorns all — no light, no future. 
 Why hast thou stolen from my soul her faith ?" 
 Hirschvogel, shaken with remorseful grief, 
 Said, ^ " Spare me," and the old man said no 
 
 more. 
 
3i8 MELCHIOR. [part xxxii. 
 
 A sudden frantie jdy lit Melchior's face, • 
 " Thank God ! her spirit ! lo, her spirit there ! 
 It hangs above the body — Blanca's soul ! 
 'Tis looking in the face of its dead twin — 
 Beloved one, now we shall never part !" 
 
PART XXXIII. 
 
 Two faithful guardians had Melchior — 
 Dutch John, who never left him, night or 
 
 day — 
 Servant and keeper hcy to watch and tend — 
 So was it ordered by the kindly court 
 Who made sad inquisition on a deed 
 All blameless and begotten of deception — 
 And Hans, whose heart shed silent sympathy, 
 Hans, friendlyreyed, the truest living pnan. 
 Would I could justly pen his eulogy! 
 So simple, humble, sterling, manly, fond ; 
 His fancies sweet as grove of singing birds. 
 
 Alas ! what poison is in jealousy ! 
 That venom which doth linger after love. 
 And liveth in love's embers poignantly. 
 
320 MELCHIOR. [PART xxxiii. 
 
 That snare which Wolfgang laid for Hans' wife, 
 Arid which she seeme^ to scorn, hath taken 
 
 her. 
 Oh ! woman's vanity, full of surprises, 
 And yet a problem which a child may solve. 
 The boyish profligate, the mincing Stultzer, 
 Had a strange clinging ppwer, like tentacles. 
 Repel him, or insult him, threaten, strike, 
 He clung where he had fastened, flabby-firm. 
 As with the jelly muscle of the limpet. 
 Hans slowly took the infection, unsuspecting. 
 As a deep lodged disease, at first oppressive ; 
 A babble through the house, an idiot laughter, 
 Assailed his taste with nausea, stifled all 
 His dearest thoughts, and left a loathly strange- 
 ness. 
 Then fondlings in the room, and sugared words. 
 Begot a manly anger in his blood ; 
 But still he could say nought, no charge had he. 
 It was not in his nature to fespy. 
 So then came long suspicious wretchedness — 
 
PART XXXIII.] MELCHIOR. 321 
 
 Suspicion, like a cobweb, frail and gluey, 
 Foiled him, entangled, blinded, dungeoned him. 
 This is a bitter truth which I have proved. 
 Once on my path of life and to my pain ; 
 There is more reckless mischief in a fool 
 Than in the rankest knave who counters you. 
 The tents of wickedness have less of scathe 
 Than hath the home where Folly jingles bells. 
 To his unselfish heart there came a whisper, 
 And soon that whisper widened to a call. 
 One sits alone all day watched by a menial ; 
 He, the high-souled, the kind, the loving man, 
 Afflicted, shunned, bankrupt of happiness. ' 
 Then Hans went forth, and shook the dust of 
 
 home 
 From off his feet. With Melchior he abode. 
 Whene'er his eyes fell on the tambour frame 
 SJie used to work, a craving sorrow took him. ■ 
 Marvelled he much at Melchior's sunny cheer. 
 Who met his gaze of friendly sympathy 
 With tranquil smile, nor ever spoke his thanks. 
 
322 MELCHIOR. [part xxxiii. 
 
 Save by a lengthened pressure of the hand. 
 
 His sympathy sat at a palace gate, 
 
 His tears fell in the very fount of joy, 
 
 His sighs suppressed were burden to a paean. 
 
 It was as if a man should lift his hat 
 
 To jovial wedding rout that passed his road. 
 
 In solemn faith a funeral went by ; 
 
 Ais if a man said masses for a soul 
 
 Love-drowned in its first day in Paradise. 
 
 Now Hans' grief lay ever on the ground, 
 
 A comfortless regret, death liveried ; 
 
 The numb low musings of a secret mourner, 
 
 Who stands upon the border of a grave, 
 
 And murmurs broken words to nothingness 
 
 A fathom 'neath the grass.' 
 
 But Melchior's secret heart was in a summer. 
 
 Mute with the joy sublime of young Immortal, 
 
 A joy so intimate that asketh not 
 
 For envy's incense, in itself complete. 
 
 Hans laid fresh flowers daily on the mound. 
 
 And hid the smooth'ning pressure of the spade, 
 
PART xxxin.] MELCHIOR. 323 
 
 And over, set a slab of snowy marble, 
 
 Whereon were graven gilded letters six — 
 
 One word,' a mystery, yet full of tears 
 
 To gentle Hans alone, the name of Blanca. 
 
 But Melchior made garland-gay his home, 
 
 And like a sea-shell echoing with music. , 
 
 He threw his lattice open to the sun. 
 
 And in flew joyous things — a tiger moth, 
 
 Reckless of coming winter, in the pride 
 
 Of gorgeous velvet wings and powdery bloom,^ 
 
 And small birds dancing, with their fluttering 
 
 shadows. 
 The portrait Hans had painted lovingly, 
 Stood on an easel ; x'mghd silken curtain 
 Hung over. Jlans unveiled it reverently, 
 And stood before it in a dream of worship ; 
 And Melchior stood silently behind. 
 At last he laid his hand on Hans' shoulder — 
 " I give thee back thy precious gift again. ' 
 Take it hence, friend, for Blanca loves thee 
 
 well." 
 
324 MELCHIOR. [part xxxiii. 
 
 " How can I take it ? 'tis thy last memorial." 
 " Nay, friend," said Melchior, " she is with me 
 
 still. 
 And bids me give it back, and say to thee, 
 ' Be comforted — shed no more tears for me.' 
 Ah, Hans, she is more lovely — lovelier far." 
 
PART XXXIV. 
 
 ALL SOULS' DAY. 
 
 It is the dawn, it rises doubtfully, 
 
 Birds chirrup, as in sleep, a doubtful note. 
 
 And a grey cerement lies upon the land. 
 
 And, o'er the water, tracts of phantom fog, 
 
 As if the dreams of all the sleeping world 
 
 Lay, spellbound, o'er the meadows, cattle, trees ; 
 
 And dappled dimly, rose the speechless dawn. 
 
 This is a festival with Melchior, 
 
 He never misseth, and he names the morn 
 
 His little "All Souls' Day." Twice in the 
 
 year. 
 In springtime and in autumn, doth he keep it. 
 Wide open to the garden is his door, 
 And piled within are cages tenanted. 
 
336 MELCHIOR. [part xxxiv.^ 
 
 Linnet, and bullfinch, and the songster thrush. 
 Who decks the pine-top with a crown of song ; 
 Blackbird, and nightingale, that dies in bondage, 
 Sedge-warble^, golden crest, and bearded tit. 
 Through all the town he sent, and sought them 
 
 out 
 For happy manumission on this day. 
 Cage after cage Dutch John laid on his hand. 
 And, opening each small wicket carefully. 
 He waited, till into the tiny heart 
 Entered the thought, the panting thought of 
 
 freedom. 
 Till the still freshness of the air should stir 
 The memories of the trees, then fluttered forth 
 With a quick pang of dizzy happiness, 
 Amazed, as in a dream of liberty, 
 Each captive, to an unknown land of leaves. 
 This was to him his little All Souls' Day. 
 The tiny babel of a hundred pipes 
 Now wakes from every dewy tent of green. 
 " The day, the glowing day, is growing fast, 
 
PART XXXIV.] MELCHIOR. 327 
 
 Set thou her chair before the tambour frame," 
 He said, with jocund voice ; " The sun ariseth ! 
 And set the lilies in the' jasper vase, 
 And, where she marked her place, unclasp the 
 
 book. 
 The whilst I ring a welcome to my love." 
 Dutch John, unquestioning, and immobile 
 Of feature, set the chair, unclasped the book. 
 And laid the flowers on the casement seat. 
 At the well-tempered clavichord sate Melchior, 
 And, with uplifted face, played in the sun. 
 With muffled chords, the canopy of clouds 
 And crimson trance of light stirring to life, 
 ' With little vivid scroHeries of gold. 
 And then the Godhead of the orb soars up. 
 Rending his robes in mute and ireful vow. 
 And shaking beamy spears. Melchior arose, 
 And some one seemed to enter in the room. 
 " Welcome, beloved one, come with thd sun, ' 
 Thou sunrise of my heart, I welcome thee." 
 And then he seemed caressing hands of air. 
 
328 MELCHIOR. [part xxxiv. 
 
 And listening, as if some one spake to him, 
 With a dehghted smile. Then would he answer, 
 " When I am wakingr— when I sleep/' said he, 
 " Still dost thou come. Last night I had a dream, 
 A white sweet sleep, like to the blossomed 
 
 May." , ' , 
 
 Then spake the spirit, and he answered slowly, 
 " Oh ! is that so ? the dead can come in dreams ; 
 Dead children to their mothers, velvet fondlings, 
 And loving lisp, and little doting arms. 
 Do the dead mother's tones in far love-echo 
 Call to her lambs in dreams — her friendless 
 
 darlings ? 
 The dead and living lover clasp in sleep, 
 Oblivious of the grave that lies between ? 
 Let all the grots and temples of my dreams 
 Be filled with thee, thou sunrise of my heart." 
 And then he listened, bending tenderly — 
 " Beloved," said he, " in six little days, 
 I look for my release — receive my spirit. 
 Then, fondly wound in one anpther's arms. 
 
PART XXXIV.] MELGHIOR. -329 
 
 We'll mount upon the wind, and foot the tree- 
 tops. 
 And up the boundless giddy blue. We'll stand 
 Upon the milk-white upland of a cloud, 
 And watch the eagle wheel in cycles vast ; 
 And, as he floateth by on smooth dead-wing, 
 Glance in his amber irid, fiercely wild. 
 Then diving, light upon a sunny peak. 
 Amid th& starry flora of the crags. 
 That open their mild lips to butterflies : 
 Or, at a thought, 'mid equatorial splendours. 
 We'll poise above the great Magnolia bloom, 
 A dome .of perfume in ,a vase of snow ; 
 Or in wild wander, through the jungle glooms. 
 We'll touch the tawny head of crouching tiger. 
 In Afric fastness, or on Nubian plain. 
 We'll meet the thunderous lion on his path, 
 What time the scared moon is on the hill, 
 And he goes forth to ravin — all alone. 
 And his eyes glare, in dreadful gleaming rings ; 
 But we shall smile and glide upon his tracks. 
 
330 MELCHIOR. [part xxxiv. 
 
 Then through some leafy chasm of the woods 
 We'll soar into immensity again. 
 Ere the bewitching bloom of distance fade 
 On beafitiful and starlike things afar, 
 We will be there, as snatcheth Memory, 
 On waking, some sweet tissue of a dream 
 She must not lose, to deck her prismy web ; 
 So shall we garner every spangling wonder. 
 " Down through the white squall in its mad 
 career 
 Crushing the sea to livid agony — 
 We'll swoop like fish-hawks down, and ever down. 
 Through sparry calms to realms of coral-rose. 
 The pale red reefs — the deep-sea coral World. 
 Antlers of waxen whim in spellbound her^is. 
 All in a golden glow of wonderment. 
 Sea-temples there, of branching ruby spires, 
 And through their twilight aisles, a psalmody 
 Low-booming — chanting echoes of the storm 
 That shrieks green fathoms up -^unbounded 
 chords ! 
 
PART XXXIV.] MELCHIOR. 331 
 
 And giant forests there, of amber range, 
 Wave, undulate, and melt in lucent glooms. 
 
 " But when the sea is sapphire, sun-enlaid, 
 Like streaks of silver shoot we up to air. 
 To lose ourselves in skies of pearl and gold. 
 And, following the marshalled snowy cohort 
 Of winging swans upon a blue salt wind, 
 We'll fleet away behind their eldritch clangours. 
 And let them herald us to silvery wastes 
 Of water where the giant lilies rise 
 With ghostly gleams up from transparent depths. 
 Unfolding moonlike sails in their ascent, 
 To shine above and slumber on the slope 
 Of glassy wave 'mid purple fleets of leaves. . 
 Or, desert-borne, alight on each vast brow 
 Of the twin Memphian brethreri, they who keep 
 Their stony vigil through the listening night, 
 And watch with them the changes of the stars. 
 And hearken to all stirrings, — desert moths, 
 And mystic murmurs of the wheeling worlds 
 Upon their trackless and abysmeil ways. 
 
332 MELCHIOR. [part xxxiv. 
 
 Or note the whims of the mad sexton wind 
 Still toiling vainly ever to inter 
 Beneath his sandy heaving sepulture 
 The Sphinx's upreared head and craggy stare. 
 We'll enter hand-in-hand, like acolytes, ' 
 The awful temple of a thunder-cloud. 
 Ere the god roar within his lofty dome. 
 And write o'er heaven his dazzling hieroglyph ! " 
 Thus with his fond wild commune sate he 
 
 there, 
 In fantasies of boundless liberty. 
 Seeming to twine his hands with spirit hands, 
 Listening at times, with a delighted smile. 
 And answering some loving ghostly speech 
 Which none but he could hear. So sate he 
 
 there. 
 
PART XXXV. 
 
 From the south-west uprose the hunter Wind, 
 Chasing all quarry, leaf, and waif, and cloud. 
 Along the highway, whirled in white simoom. 
 The dusty eddies thickly clouding up. 
 The withered leaves fled in mad rout away. 
 Or, in a corner, hiding from the wind, ' 
 Spun whispering around in dance of death. 
 Across the stubble, like wild living things. 
 Dishevelled sheaves of harvest rolled along, 
 To pause, and roll again, as in new panic. 
 The grasses trembled, and the jointed reed 
 Quivered, even as an arrow that, hath struck. 
 With every shuddering tree the storm hath 
 
 grappled 
 Until it writhes, like a Medusa head 
 
334 MELCHIOR. [part xxxv. 
 
 Started awake. The clouds are torn to shreds, 
 Wild as the witches riding to their Sabbath. 
 With passionate green pulse, upon the lattice 
 Of Melchior's home, the leafy tendrils beat. 
 The fateful day comes on a stormy wing. 
 The day foretold in words his soul could hear 
 By midnight wraith, iand he awaits the hour 
 E'en as a prisoned bird with pants of hope 
 Awaits the master's hand to lift the latch. 
 The foot of fortune is upon the hills — 
 The bright and speeding foot. I^ive ! Melchior, 
 
 live ! 
 Brave news, glad tidings, standeth at thy door. 
 Defeat, which lay upon her battle-field, 
 The lavish sweat, and blood upon her brow,- — 
 Her only gleam, the corpse-lights of dead day — 
 Her only shroud. Fame's standard torn to 
 
 rags — 
 Her only wreath, the sad and sodden rue — 
 Ere now hath leaped upon her feet at morn 
 . In blazoned arms, a flushed young Victory. 
 
PART XXXV.] MELCHIOR. , 335 
 
 In" Southern Germany soareth his name, 
 And his last work, the darling of his brain, 
 Hath won all hearts ; a triumph past his dreams. 
 The seed that Wolfgang's hand at random cast, 
 Hath grown into a goodly spreading tree 
 All fruited with the gleam of golden sound. 
 And men delight themselves beneath its shade. 
 Ah ! bitter is that tardy. kiss of love, 
 That might have turned life's fast to festival, 
 But falleth on pale lips that set in death. 
 Prayer answered, coming late, is mockery — 
 The blessing knocking at an empty home ; 
 The bread that comes to genius, famine clung; 
 The sceptre placed within the palsied hand ; 
 Fame's trumpet note upon a dying dSr. 
 All ye that love him, watch with him this hour, 
 Show him how sudden fair hath life become ; 
 His fruited life^beguile him lovingly ; , 
 
 Put back the dial hand, and cheat old Time. 
 Nature, Ambition, Passion, Life, plead well ; 
 Wake every instinct, beat foreboding down. 
 
336 MELCHIOR. [part xxxv. 
 
 So those that loved him, came, and he was 
 calm. 
 And cheerfully to every loyal soul. 
 He proffered some kind word on their concerns. 
 Hirschvogel cried, " Hoch 1 hock ! long live the 
 
 Meister ; 
 Read thou this letter from the Prince's hand. 
 Its light doth filter through — a written sun- 
 beam ; 
 No longer dost thou bear the brand of failure, 
 And thou hast justified the Prince's faith 
 In thy grand masterpiece ! Storm-beat awhile. 
 It hath returned, an argosy of fame. 
 They speak of it ; in sweet vogue, everywhere,.. 
 Thy music is immortal, live thou, too." 
 Then Melchior slowly took the missive sealed. 
 And broke the wax. ■ " Why dost not rend it 
 
 open 
 Like a reprieve, or golden testament?" 
 " She comes at noon for me," said Melchior. 
 " And, if it please her, I will share her gladness." 
 
PART XXXV.] MELCHIOR. 337 
 
 Hirschvogel took a silver wreath of bays, 
 Sent by the Prince, and laid it on his head : 
 The bay leaves shadowed o'er his listless brow, 
 As crown of sea-wrack which a wave hath tossed 
 Upon some surf-worn rock of steadfast grey. 
 " Let the dead rest," Hirschvogel gently said, 
 " The flowers upon her grave daily revive. 
 And comes apace the green ; let the dead rest. 
 But live thou — ^meet to-day thy marching 
 honours." 
 " She comes for me at noon," said Melchior, 
 " She hath the tears of all kind souls," sajd Hans; 
 " The people group and read the marble slab. 
 The children point, the women wipe the tear 
 With lifted apron ; she is almost sainted. 
 We have her memory, alas ! no more." 
 " She comes for me at noon," said Melchior ; 
 " What is a grave, a slabi or funeral flowers, ' 
 To me, who have her daily at my side ? 
 By solemn assignation of two souls 
 We meet to-day, and I shall hence with her." 
 
338 MELCHIOR. [part xxxv. 
 
 Then Wolfgang, frankly smiling, took his hand ; 
 " I am not, well thou knowest, thy votary ; 
 I never felt thy music ; thy last theme 
 Touched me no more with waft of truth or 
 
 feeling 
 Than yonder random trumpets of the storm. 
 The fault may lie within my senseless ear. 
 To all thy spirit levies, visitants 
 Without those vulgar organs, lung or entrail, 
 I have been ever a mere listless sceptic, 
 And I have smiled, and shrugged, and turned 
 
 away, ' 
 Abstaining from a scoff for friendship's sake. 
 Frankness and friendship are the same to-day. 
 And now, I would atone for thoughtless mischief 
 So tragic in result ; and gratitude 
 Wrings wholesome truth from me. My honoured 
 
 friend, 
 Thy fame is at its zenith — the same fools, 
 Or else their like, who once presumed to sneer. 
 Presume to praise — decree to thee a triumph ; 
 
PART XXXV.] MELCHIOR. ' 339 
 
 Stretch forth thine hands to it^ — why dost thou 
 
 , strain 
 To seize, with childish fingers, a brain-bubble ? 
 Be not the captain in the heady siege. 
 Whose heart hath led him greatly -through the 
 
 breach, 
 But when he standeth victor in the town, 
 Then, coward-wise, dies of a sinking spirit." 
 But Melchior turned on him a gentle look — 
 The smile in his blue spiritual eyes — 
 " Not long hast thou to wait ; thine answer 
 
 comes ; 
 Her faithful hand almost is on the latch. 
 What import hath this vanity for me ?" 
 The gentle priest devoutly crossed himself-^^ — 
 " My son, let masses for her soul be said : 
 I Pray we for her ; turn to our Blessed Lady, 
 That she may breathe with mercy on thy spirit. 
 Beseech thy patron Saint, who lit thy path 
 With radiant presence, to incline thy thoughts 
 To God, to Jesus, to the Queen of Heaven, 
 
340 MELCHIOR. [part xxxv. 
 
 That they may free thy soul from vain illusion — 
 Thou art in bondage to an evil dream. 
 Thy guardian, St. Cecilia, may she shield 
 Thy steps from stumbling, and encompass thee 
 With her pure light, to show thee Satan's snare." 
 
 " I have confessed. The blessed Eucharist 
 Hath passed my lips," said Melchior, reverently ; 
 " All rites have been fulfilled ; I am at peace. 
 But call not fantasy this visitation 
 Of one I knew, I know, and I have seen 
 Daily, since her release, as palpably 
 As thou see'st me, clasped as my hand clasps 
 
 thine. 
 Her soundless step I feel, when glides she in, 
 Her gaze, the pretty wistful gaze, I greet 
 With lulled delight, all yesterday 'twas on me. 
 Her voice, — its every loving note I know, 
 The haunting hum of it is on mine ear, 
 When she is gone — a dreamy longing link 
 Till she return — to hold my thought to her ; 
 And her quaint tender speech with sweet surprise 
 
PART XXXV.] MELCHIOR. 341 
 
 Doth take ray listening heart as when she lived 
 In mortal mould — it is not fantasy, 
 Born of my brain — I wot not of her words, 
 Before their silvery birth be on her lips; 
 Those lips but yesterday were pressed to mine, 
 And through me, to the centre of my heart. 
 Dropped a delicious, swooning, mournful joy." 
 He opened the well-tempered clavichord, 
 And wound himself in music, to exclude 
 The discord of his erring comforters. 
 All waited mutely, for the dial hand 
 Was set a quarter back, to cheat his fate. 
 A woman's ministering hand was there, 
 Which set all things in place — a woman's step 
 Made the rooms homely— It was Hans' wife. 
 Dutch John sat solemnly upon his post ; 
 Poor Hans, with watery eye, and ache at heart, 
 Glanced at the tambour; she is lost to him. 
 Hirschvogel sat crossed-legged, his glasses up, 
 And watched for what might hap, with ageful 
 fire. 
 
342 MELCHIOR. [part xxxv. 
 
 Wolfgang strode up and dqwn, with clouding 
 
 brow. 
 And, crowned with silver bays, sat Melchior, 
 His face beneath imperially serene ; 
 With long swift fingers running o'er the keys, 
 And, like thought visible, leaf shadows flickered 
 Momently o'er him — face, and hand, and breast. 
 And vanished in caprices of the wind. 
 The Doctor touched his arm, " The hour is past. 
 Look to the clock, the noon hath struck, and thou 
 Art full of life and music. Melchior, look !" 
 But still, with little headings of the head, 
 Melchior ran o'er the keys with fingers swift. 
 And still, in quick accompaniment without. 
 The passionate green pulsings of the tendrils, 
 The rattling of the lattice, the deplorings 
 Of tree, and chimney, in a chorus weird, 
 A sound ! a sound at which all start, and stare, 
 As at^:he bell of fate that calls on death. 
 " 'Tis the Domkirche clock — drown it, ye friends. 
 Dash yonder cymbals, shiver yonder vase ! 
 
PART XXXV.] MELCHIOR. 343 
 
 Uplift your voices, drown those mortal tolls 
 That raise their heavy utterance on the storm !" 
 The music ceaseth. Melchior turned his head, 
 And raised his dreaming eyes about the level 
 Of where might be a phantom woman's head. 
 There was a raptured peace in his blue eye, 
 And on the crowned head Monarchical '; 
 And, like thought visible, the shadows flickered 
 On face, on bosom, and long, sallow hands. 
 " Blanca !" he murmured, "thou hast come for me, 
 And I am ready : part we on the storm !" 
 All held their breath — -a little gleam — a chill. 
 All fancied something seemed to flit away. 
 His arms dropped straight — set was his fading 
 
 gaze 
 Just to the level of a woman's head. 
 There sat the Meister, bloodless, crowned, and 
 
 dead. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Down knelt the priest, and murmured Latin 
 prayers ; 
 
344 MELCHIOR. [part xxxv. 
 
 Hoop-backed, Hirschvogel stood, a century old. 
 Wolfgang was moved, the iron heart was molten, 
 The hard cold eyes grew soft, and to their'brim — 
 As if a mask of stone, by miracle. 
 Wept in its niche — stern tears of grief welled up. 
 His foster-mother had been Want the Wolf, 
 His parents lawless Wroth and Mockery. 
 Had he in tender years been gently cherished, 
 And met for merit, modest recompense. 
 The common vulgar sunshine of success, 
 He had been less a discord in life's chorus. 
 As Hon cubs suck tameness from the udder 
 Of gentle canine foster-mother,; — ^he 
 Had looked with kindlier eyes upon the world. 
 One, he had loved, — and Melchior was dead. 
 And Hans, poor loving Hans, wept openly — 
 Thought common grief unlocketh hearts of foeg : 
 He turned on impulse, beaming charity 
 On Wolfgang, who was standing stern with grief, 
 And stretched a manly hand. " Speak to me, 
 Wolfgang." 
 
PART XXXV.] MELCHIOR. 345 
 
 With. levin scowl, Wolfgang turned on his heel, 
 And the good hand was left alone and foolish. 
 Poised in the air. A woman's hand hath 
 
 snatched it. 
 And pressed it to her l^ps — 'twas Hans' wife. > 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed *y R. & R. Clark, EdiSmrgh. 
 
Messrs. Macmillan and Go.'s Publications. 
 
 LORD TENNYSON'S NEW BOOK, 
 
 BECKET. 
 
 By Alteed, Lom) Tennyson, Poet Laureate. Fcap. 8vo. 6s, 
 
 THE GUP: AND THE FALCON. 
 
 By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet Laiireate. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 Now ready, complete in Seven V olnmes. Extra foap. 8vo. 5s. each, 
 THE WORKS OF ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 A Kew Collected Edition, in Seven Yolnmes. Extra fcap. 8vo. Sa. each 
 Toimue. 
 
 A UmUed tt/umb&r of copies are prvnied on best E(md-made pojp&r. This 
 EdiHon is sold onH/jj in Sets, fxt the rate of 10s. 6d. per Volwrne. 
 
 Vol. I. EAKLY POEMS. 
 Vol. H. LTTCRBTnrS : and other 
 PobmB. 
 
 voi.ni. mviLS OF the king. 
 
 Vol. IV. THE PRINCESS : and 
 MATJD. 
 
 Vol. V. ENOCH AEDEN : and 
 INMEMOBIAM. 
 
 Vol. VI. QUEEN MABT : and 
 HABOLD. 
 
 Vol. VII. BALLADS and other 
 Poems. 
 
 By archbishop TRENCH. 
 POEMS. Collected Edition. By Eiohard Chbnevix Tejjnoh, 
 D.B., Eighth Edition. Globe Svo. Is. 6d. , 
 
 By MATTHEW AENOtD. 
 
 POEMS. By Matthew Arnold. New and Complete Edition. 
 Two Vols. Crown Svo. I. Bablt Poems, Naebativb Foems, and Sohuets. 
 II. Ltbic, Bramatio, and Elegiac Foems. 7s. 6d'. each Volnihe. 
 
 By CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 POEMS ; including " The Saints' Tragedy," " Andromeda," 
 Songs, Ballads, &c. By Charles Eihgsley. New Collected Edition. 
 Eversley Edition. Two Vols. Globe Svo. 10s. 
 Popular Edition. Crown Svo. 63. 
 
 By ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 POEMS. By Abthtjr Hugh Clough, some time FeUow of Oriel 
 College, Oxford. With a Memoir. New Edition. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 By THOMAS WOOLNER, R.A. 
 
 MY BEAUTIFUL LADY. With a Vignette by Artetjb Httqhes. _ 
 
 Third Edition. Pcap. Svo. 5s. 
 PYGMALION : A Poem. Crown Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 SILENUS : A Poem. Crown Svo. 6s. • 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. 
 
Messrs. Macmillan and Go.'s Publications. 
 
 MILTON'S POETICAL WORKS. Edited, with Introductions 
 and Jfotes, by Datid Masson, Professor of Bhetoric and English Literature 
 in the University of Edinburgh. With three Portraits engraved by C. H. 
 Jeens. Extra fcap. edition. 3 vols. 16s. , 
 
 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS. Edited 
 
 from the best printed and MS. authorities, with Glossarial Index and a 
 Biographical Memoir by At.bxakdeb Smith. In 2 vols. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth. 
 12s. 
 
 OOLpiRIDGB.— THE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS 
 
 OF Samuel Tatlob Colekiboe. Founded on the Author's latest Edition 
 of 1834, with many Additional Pieces now first included, and with a Col- 
 lection of various Readings. 4 vols. Fcap. Svo. 31s. 6d. 
 
 THE WORKS OP THOMAS GRAY. In Prose and Verse. 
 Edited by Edmusd Gobse, Clark Lecturer of English Literature at the 
 University of Cambridge. With Portraits and Facsimile. In 4 vols.. Globe 
 Svo. 20s. 
 
 GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES. New Volume. 
 
 THE POETICAL WORKS OP JOHN KEATS. Reprinted 
 
 from the original editions, with Notes. By Feahois Tubhee Paigeave. 
 With a Vignette, after Flaxman. 18mo. 4s. 6d. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB'S POEMS, PLAYS, AND MISCELLA- 
 
 NEons Essays. , With Intrdductibn and Notes by Alfbed Aibgeb, Editor 
 of the " Essays of Elia,'' etc. Globe Svo. 6s. 
 
 RIQITET OP THE TtTPT. A Love Drama. By Stopfoed A. 
 Bbogee, M.A. Extra crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 By F. W. H. MYERS, M.A. 
 
 THE RENEWAL OP YOUTH, AND OTHER POEMS. Crown 
 Svo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 ST. PAUL. A Poem. - New Edition. Extra fcap. Svo. 2s, 6d. 
 
 By CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 POEMS. Complete Edition. With Eour Illustrations. Extra 
 fcap. Svo. 6s. 
 
 A PAGEANT, AND OTHER POEMS. Eztra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 By the Author op "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." , 
 
 THIRTY YEARS. Being Poems New and Old. By the Author 
 of "John jSalifax, Gentleman." Crown Svo., cloth, gilt. 6s. 
 
 CHILDREN'S POETRY. By the Author of "John Halifax, 
 
 Gentleman." Globe Svo. 4s. 6d. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., lONDON.